


Childe Darcy's Pilgrimage

by ouiser_boudreaux



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Slow Burn, all the best cliches tbh, cliches ahead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouiser_boudreaux/pseuds/ouiser_boudreaux
Summary: Darcy Lewis and her adoptive sister, the Lady Jane Foster, are bluestockings of the highest order. Jane's enthusiasm for science and Darcy's penchant for social commentary don't exactly endear them to the highest of the ton, but their writings soon attract the attention of society's most peculiar - and eligible - brothers. Country house parties, Romantic poets, and secret societies ensue.





	1. Currents, Commentary, and Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when you've got someone with an English degree, a fondness for historical romance novels, and an undying love for Tasertricks? This story. I can't promise high literature, but I can promise all your favorite cliches and probably appearances by at least three literary figures who never deserved this.

“How in blazes is this neckline so low?” Darcy Lewis, neither a lady in title nor bearing, gave the pale blue satin a vain tug in some pretense of protecting her own modesty before crossing her arms with an exasperated sigh.

“Darcy! Language!” Jane Foster, proper Lady as daughter of the Earl of Essex, rounded the corner of Darcy’s room. She had all the deportment expected of a young woman of standing, elegantly appointed in her own rose-colored velvet gown. “There’s a chill this evening. Bring a shawl if you’re so concerned about your…” She pursed her lips. “Decolletage.”

Darcy snatched up the shawl she’d left draped over the chair at her writing desk, ignoring Jane’s feigned horror at it being left there in the first place. “It’s not exactly _fashionable_.”

“And since when do bluestockings like us care for fashion?” 

Darcy cast her own eye at Jane. “Oh, certainly. As if you are not at the height of fashion this evening.” 

Jane sighed and let her shoulders slouch forward a bit. “It’s not as if I have much choice in the matter.” 

Darcy felt a twinge of guilt and reached forward to take her adoptive sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Jane.” She squeezed until Jane looked up at her with a small smile. “Neither of us is fashionable, going to a scientific lecture tonight.” 

Jane slipped her arm in the crook of Darcy’s. “I can’t imagine we’ll go to many more.”

“Oh, imagine it.” Darcy pulled her shawl tighter across her chest. “Your father is far too indulgent of both our whims.”

“Electromagnetism is not a _whim_ !” Jane took a deep breath, which Darcy knew from years of experience was the beginning of one of her spiels. Just as indulgently as her adoptive father, she let Jane barrel onward with her talk of currents and compass needles and how _thrilling_ it was that the Earl had secured their place to attend tonight’s groundbreaking presentation.

Darcy allowed her mind to wander as they descended the stairs of their town residence and stepped up into the carriage. It wasn’t that the scientific was a bore; to the contrary, she did find it fascinating on the rudimentary level that she had the patience for. But tucked down the bodice of her gown, as best as she could manage, was the treatise that captivated far more of her interest. And it, too, had captivated the interest of one mysterious Master L.

As Jane chattered excitedly with their father opposite them, Darcy leaned back slightly and tried to relax as best she could in the bouncing carriage. Her correspondence with this man, known only by the single initial, had begun a good three months prior after she read his pamphlet that critiqued the (by now infamous) Wollstonecraft _Vindication_. She sent a letter immediately via the publisher in vehement disagreement with his reductive reasoning that called Wollstonecraft’s arguments flimsy and unviable. His rather arch response asked Darcy how, exactly, she would choose to enact the proper educational structure for the fairer sex, to which she bitingly responded that she preferred even further radicalization and equality than what Wollstonecraft had advocated. 

The letters had continued on a weekly basis, vacillating between acerbic and respectful, with a grudging admiration peeking through the dry tone of Master L’s responses. Darcy had taken to writing long into the night until she’d produced the rather over-reaching pamphlet now tucked tightly to her chest. She thought, fleetingly, that perhaps it had been a bit much to dabble in the same satiric tones as Jonathan Swift while advocating for the women of the Catholic Celtic nations, but brushed the thought aside to concentrate on the most pertinent information in the last letter she had received. 

 _The upcoming lecture on the Danishman’s scientific discoveries promises to be interesting, in my opinion. I try to keep my mind active, and I’m certain a learned woman such as yourself is similarly inclined. I fear the date is too close to be so presumptuous as to ask whether you’ll be in attendance, but if you shall be, I would be so bold as to say I hope to finally meet you. It’s not often anyone matches my intellectual mettle…_  

He’d gone on about his mental prowess, which Darcy found a bit off-putting, but she was willing to look past it if it meant finally meeting the man behind the pen. She had his brief description of his own appearance memorized, save for some of the more colorful adjectives attributed to his own attractiveness. The cravat pin was what stood out most: a golden Scottish thistle, which seemed an odd choice for an apparent Londoner.

The carriage began to slow and Darcy sat up straighter, blinking away her reverie. Jane and the Earl were still discussing the possibilities presented by electrical discoveries as they came to a stop at the lecture hall.

Automatically, Darcy fell behind her father and sister. No matter the affection they shared at home, she never felt it was entirely proper to walk beside the Earl as a blood daughter. Even old Henry Foster, as she’d known him since she was ten, seemed to think her public choices prudent. The pause, however, soon proved inconvenient as Darcy was jostled about just inside the doorway. She lost sight of Jane and the Earl for a moment and sighed. Being single and unchaperoned in a room mostly comprised of men wasn’t ideal, but she was prepared to handle it with as much aplomb as she could muster. She chose a seat closer to the back of the grand lecture hall, settling in to simply wait out the crowd once the whole event was finished. 

“Pardon me,” said a low voice to her right. 

Darcy looked up and saw a tall, slender man with dark hair standing by her seat at the end of the row. She cleared her throat as delicately as she could manage (which wasn’t very). “Yes?” 

The man gestured at the seat to her left. “May I?” 

Darcy hid her annoyance behind her best warm smile and stood. “Of course, Master...” 

He inclined his head. “Laufeyson.” 

Darcy froze. She thought back to the pertinent details in the last letter. _Dark hair, tall…_ Her eyes went to his neck. _Golden thistle cravat pin._ Her smile broadened and she affected a deeper curtsy than etiquette warranted. “And I am Miss Lewis.”

He waited for her to resume her seat, mischief now apparent in his green eyes. “I have to say, this meeting was easier than I had expected.” He finally sat, somehow affecting total ease in his posture while still remaining in the bounds of formality. 

Darcy surreptitiously reached beneath her shawl to draw the now-creased pages from her bodice. “Then perhaps, Master L, you’ll find this more of a challenge.” 

He barely glanced at the sheaf of paper before slipping it into his jacket. He turned his head to Darcy, mouth open to speak, when a loud rapping drew the entire room’s attention to the front. The lecture had begun.

Darcy could barely listen as she stole glances at this Laufeyson. She was incensed that he hadn’t even begun to look at her treatise. Oh, she knew it was perhaps irrational to expect it of him - after all, he seemed to be paying rapt attention to the presentation at hand - but it needled her all the same. She had worked for hours, days even, on drafting what she thought was her most daring social commentary yet, and she’d assumed their meeting would be one of intellectuals. She could feel her face slipping into a scowl in spite of herself. 

Master Laufeyson leaned over ever so slightly to his right. “Miss Lewis, do pay attention.” 

She turned her head to retort and was greeted only with a serenely attentive profile, decidedly not in her direction. She searched for words before he interrupted her. 

“I’m certain you can make better use of your peripheral vision.”

“I cannot even begin to express all I have to say to you, sir!” Darcy hissed through clenched teeth at what seemed to her a quiet susurrus, but a few well-appointed male heads in the row in front of them turned slightly to glower at her.

Still facing forward, Master Laufeyson let out a barely-audible chuckle. “You may not want to begin it here.” He patted the breast of his jacket. “I’m sure there is plenty enough expression here for me to read in peace later on.” 

Darcy turned back to face forward, tight-lipped and fuming. When the lecture concluded, she sprang from her chair in the most unladylike fashion and went straight for the door. She found the Essex carriage easily enough and climbed inside, ignoring the footman’s proffered hand, and waited for her sister and father to return. Oh, he would know expression all right. She had already begun mentally drafting another letter to Master Laufeyson, firmly putting his high cheekbones and curving lips out of her mind. _Read in peace indeed._


	2. Insolence and Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors, an invitation, and inconvenient butterflies for both our intrepid heroines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to see people enjoying this already! I'm having far too much fun writing it.

As with most great works of art, Darcy found that her next letter to the infuriating Master Laufeyson swiftly came to life out of sheer spite. Whatever had been ignited in her belly - rage, she told herself, most certainly rage - fueled the nights that found her waking suddenly at midnight with yet another quip come to mind, or a more concise way to rework what she’d already said. By the end of the week, she had written and rewritten what she thought were a rather brilliant three pages condemning what she regarded as a horrible dismissal of her very person.

Unfortunately, she never found the chance to post it.

She was still sitting in her room in a dressing gown at two in the afternoon on Friday, nose-deep in the pages of _Castle Rackrent_. (She personally found Edgeworth’s use of unreliable narration to be brilliant, but the entirety of the novel tended to make her uncomfortably aware of her own status as an Englishwoman in a noble house.) She hardly noticed when Jane entered.

“Darcy.” Jane waited a few beats. “ _Darcy._ ”

“What is it now?” Darcy put a scrap of her first draft of her as-yet-unmailed letter into the book before closing it.

“When were you planning to dress today?”

Darcy gestured grandly around the room. “You mean for the visitors I entertain in the middle of the day?”

Jane made a show of throwing open the wardrobe. “We’re all about to entertain some important visitors.” She mused over the day dresses thoughtfully and pulled out one in green sprigged with flowers that she knew Darcy absolutely loathed. “Now, in fact. Come on, we don’t have time for Anna to come dress you.”

Darcy grumbled as she pushed herself from the bed. “There can’t be anyone so important that the not-daughter has to come to the drawing room.”

Jane tsked as she tied a sash around Darcy’s waist and led her to the vanity. “I would say that the sons of the Marquess of Orkney warrant the entire household.” 

Darcy frowned. “There’s enough land mass for Orkney to count as a march?”

“You know how titles are.” Jane pulled a brush through Darcy’s hair and began to braid it, winding the braid around the crown. “Hold still. You’re not twelve anymore.”

“Life was much easier then.”

Jane couldn’t help but smile. “You’re right. At twelve, we were certain we’d be married off by now.”

“ _You_ were certain. I’ve never been one for the idea.”

Jane stepped back. “And now here we are, you one-and-twenty, and I three years older, and still as single as when you let me braid your hair more often.” 

“I was coerced.” Darcy bit back a smile and stood up. “Much like now.”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy yourself immensely.” Jane gave herself a once-over in the mirror. “I hear the younger son is quite the academic.” 

Darcy thought about the letter still sitting on her desk. “I think I’d just as soon forgo the intellectual men for now.”

They began to walk down the stairs. “You, averse to an intelligent man?” Jane teased. “Did your mysterious L say something to upset you in his last letter?”

Darcy grimaced. “Not quite.” 

“Oh, do smile. For me, at least.” Jane paused. “I hear that the eldest Lord of Orkney isn’t as well-read as his brother.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “However, I don’t believe I would enjoy a man with more brains than I’ve got.”

Darcy’s smile was genuine at this statement. “And it would be difficult to find one, so I commend your lower standard.”

Jane pinched Darcy’s arm and they finished their descent. When they turned the corner into the drawing room, the three gentlemen - their father, the eldest Lord Orkney, and presumably his brother behind him - stood. The earl beamed. “My lords, may I please present my daughter and her foster-sister.” He chuckled a bit at his pun.

The eldest brother was handsome indeed; handsomer than Darcy had expected, and she saw from the faint flush climbing Jane’s neck that her sister was just as pleasantly surprised. He was broad-shouldered, and it was apparent that even the most skilled tailor couldn’t quite encompass his arms in a coat without some strain. He bowed effortlessly, however. “Lady Jane and Lady Darcy.” He looked up and Darcy swore his blond hair and blue-gray eyes were glowing with wholesomeness. In fact, he rather reminded her of a lovely retriever dog she had seen on their last visit to the country house of Baron such-and-such. “Thor Odinson.” He turned to gesture to his brother. “And my own foster-brother, Loki Laufeyson.”

Darcy started. Once she managed to look past the impressive specimen of blond gentleman, she felt her stomach drop to her feet. She pursed her lips. “I am simply Darcy, my lord. No titles or ladyship for me, I fear.”

She saw Loki smirk. “No, I dare say not. One doesn’t often find ladies at lecture halls.” He pulled off what may have been the most sardonic bow Darcy had seen in her life.

The earl and Jane both started and looked a bit indignant at Loki’s comment, but Thor simply let out a short, booming laugh. “I see you’ve met my brother, then.” 

Darcy tugged imperceptibly on Jane’s sleeve and they both crossed to sit on the empty divan. When the men had resumed their seats, Darcy folded her hands in her lap and gave her best bright smile. “I’m afraid so, my lord.” 

Thor waved a hand. “Please, Thor is fine.” He looked at both Loki and Darcy. “I think you should both consider yourself fortunate to not be so burdened with titles.” 

Loki’s face darkened briefly but settled immediately back into cool indifference. The shift didn’t escape Darcy’s attention. She leaned forward slightly. “And an interesting title you have, Thor.” She nodded at Jane. “I was just asking Jane earlier if there’s even enough land in all the isles of Orkney combined to require the rule of a marquess.”

“Not that she means to diminish your lands!” Jane seemed to have found her tongue at last. The flush had spread to her cheeks, but rather prettily. Darcy rather envied the trait; her embarrassment was usually splotchy and unsightly.

Thor’s grin was easy and self-effacing. “And as I’m sure you can hear, neither of us have that Scots burr.” 

Jane nodded. “A fascinating accent, however. I’m certain that if you did affect the brogue, your speech wouldn’t be diminished in the slightest.”

Darcy smiled. She was proud to see Jane embracing her own bold flirt, even if it did need a bit of practice. She looked at Loki. “I see the reason for the thistle pin now.”

Thor spoke before his brother had the chance. “Our father was rather persuasive when His Majesty bestowed his title. Our ancestry goes back to those rugged Northmen, you see.”

“Oh, we see indeed,” said Jane.

Henry Foster looked amused, rather than shocked, at his daughter’s bold statement. “The marquess has been a wonderful ally in Parliament, my lords.” He smiled at Jane and Darcy. “I know my daughters have benefited wonderfully from his patronage of so many scientific and political minds in our country.”

“Bluestockings, are you?” The corners of Thor’s eyes crinkled.

Jane opened her mouth, but Darcy rushed in. “I hope you don’t mean to degrade our standing as gentlewomen, good sir.” She sat up straighter and her eyes bored into Loki’s. “After all, I feel that the philosophies on the education of women will progress rapidly with more… _encouraging_ attitudes.” 

Thor spread his hands. “Consider mine encouraging! An educated woman is an interesting woman, one who a man could never tire of.”

Darcy tore her gaze from Loki and flashed Thor a brilliant smile. “Your progressivism is a delight.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Loki’s eyes briefly flicker upward, and she certainly heard a small sharp exhalation from his direction. She chose to ignore both.

Thor clapped his hands together. “Henry - may I call you Henry?” He barreled on without any word of assent from the earl. “We’ve come on behalf of our father to extend an invitation to our country estate in the Scottish Highlands.”

Henry Foster’s eyes glinted with delight. “It is stag hunting season soon, is it not?”

“Precisely.” Thor turned to the ladies. “Of course, we shall have some of the greatest learned men and women of Britain and the Continent in attendance as well, lest you think you might be stuck indoors all day with nothing to occupy your fine minds.”

It was Jane’s turn to lean forward. “Oh, that sounds delightful.” She turned to her father. She didn’t even have to plead, but if she had, Lord Henry’s resolve would have crumbled before the words even came.

“In one month's time,” said Thor. “The two of us must go immediately, I’m afraid, to see to preparations.” He shifted slightly, and the five of them all stood. “But we do look forward to seeing you then. It will be a grand fortnight’s worth of merriment.” He lowered his voice slightly. “And by the end, at Midsummer, I hear tell that some of the people of that countryside still light bonfires for the old pagan holiday.”

The rest laughed genially, but Darcy saw Loki’s expression remain grave. She felt a flutter in her chest that she immediately quieted. She stayed back a few feet from her father, Thor, and Jane in order to finally get a clever word in with Loki as they moved to the front door.

“Miss Lewis,” he intoned. “I’ve awaited your correspondence all this week. Did you use up the last of your words on your veritable novella of far-reaching ideas?”

All hopes of cleverness evaporated. “I do have a letter, Master Laufeyson, but I am afraid you’ll have to wonder as to what it contains for at least four more weeks.”

“Why wait?” He touched her arm ever so lightly and Darcy snatched it back as if she’d been burned. “I’ll send a messenger to collect it this evening, and then perhaps I will have composed something of equal sarcasm by the time you arrive at our estate.”

Darcy drew herself up to her full height, which was still a good head shorter than Loki’s. “That is if I do not wound you with my own.” 

“Bold words.” He leaned over. “I said your pamphlet was far-reaching. I did not say it was half-formed or without merit.” By this time they had arrived at the door with the rest of the small party. He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Until June, my lady."

Darcy chose to ignore the “lady,” just as she chose to ignore so many things about Loki thus far, and took Jane’s arm. “We look forward to the party, my lords.” She led Jane away, back toward the stairs, and leaned over. “Before then, we are going to teach you to stop turning so red under Thor’s gaze,” she whispered to Jane.

“I don’t think you can halt biological reactions,” Jane mumbled, and they ascended to their rooms.

That night, Darcy pressed a seal to close the envelope that encased her barbed diatribe. She handed it to the butler. "Collins, this is for a messenger set to arrive from Master Laufeyson. If he doesn't arrive,  _please_ have it returned to my room by morning." She shuddered to think of what might happen if her father found even a whisper of the letters she'd been writing with such impudence to the son of a peer.

As she climbed into bed, she thought of Loki's face.  _His eyes are impossibly green, and his mouth..._ Almost immediately, she pictured his mouth in a smirk, and all butterflies in her belly stilled.  _An arrogant, awful man._ And yet... She turned over and buried her head beneath a pillow, as if the down could stop all thoughts of that curving mouth from entering her head again.


	3. Travels, Travails, and Teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy and Jane arrive at the Orkney estate, learn of its unusual name, discuss the brothers, and Darcy finds an unusual diversion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can't seem to stop writing this story! It's good for me, because I need to be writing SOMEthing, and good for the rest of you, because you get frequent updates! I may not keep writing a new chapter on a daily basis, but rest assured, they won't take much longer than a day or two at this rate.

Darcy was not a woman to shy from discomfort. She had been on what she thought were long, horrible carriage rides in the past, to at  _ least _ Manchester, which was quite far enough thank you very much, and thought herself a hardy traveler.

She had not, however, been anywhere close to Scotland. Nor had she needed to travel for more than a few days’ time.

She wondered, rather bitterly, why all the advancements of science hadn’t quite reached the realm of transportation. She knew that railways were making their slow way forward, and thought that maybe if there were more than simply prototypes they might have cut their journey soundly in half. She burrowed further back into her seat, pulling her woolen lap blanket up around her shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to ward away the mist that she insisted had crept into the coach sometime after they departed Edinburgh.

“It’s June, for God’s sake,” she said. “How is it we haven’t seen the bloody sunshine in two days?”

“Language,” the earl replied mildly, more from habit than reproach. “What is in those novels you’ve been reading?”

“The latest set of Blake poems have been full of death and misery,” said Darcy. “Appropriate, given this weather.”

“You’ll find that even a single day in the Highlands can contain as many seasons as the year.” Lord Foster frowned. “William Blake? Hasn’t he had some rather troubling ideas on marriage?”

“It depends on your definition of troubling. And marriage.” Darcy’s irascible mood was only sharpening under questioning.

The bemused earl looked to his other daughter. “How does she find these things?”

Jane shrugged. “You have been rather lax on reviewing our bookshop orders.” She smiled. “For our enrichment and education, remember?”

Darcy envied Jane’s far better humor, but was grateful for it. It usually meant a mollified, doting father, providing an easy end to any arguments she herself was sure to start. She tried to make peace by changing tack. “How much longer before we reach the estate?”

“Not long now,” said Lord Foster. “Well, not long to Thurso, and then we can only hope the sea conditions are favorable for the ferry. But I expect they shall be.”

Darcy shuddered at the thought. She already felt as if they were at the very end of the known world, but the end of the known world with only water around for miles sounded like a nightmare she never knew she could have. “I can only hope we’ve told someone in town where we’re going, so they know where to send the search party when we do not return by the end of the month.”

“Darcy.” Jane rested a hand on her shoulder. “We will be perfectly all right.”

“You  _ would _ prefer this misty misery,” Darcy retorted. “After all, who wouldn’t want to be the lady of the arse-end of civilization?”

“ _ Language _ ,” the Fosters said in unison.

* * *

When all was said and done, the ferry ride to the main island of Orkney was the least unpleasant part of the trip. Even Jane, who was less prone to a romantic nature than Darcy, gasped when the shoreline seemed to magically emerge from the mist. They were greeted by a stout older man on an equally stout pony. He shouted a greeting, or at least that’s what the ladies assumed it to be. Darcy leaned over. “I feel rude saying this, but was that English? Truly?”

The earl had no such problems with the man’s thick accent, though. He strode forward to shake the man’s hand, with Darcy and Jane not far behind as the ferryman finagled the unwieldy carriage and horses back onto land. The Scot tipped his cap to them all and, as best as Darcy could tell, introduced himself as Brian, their escort to the Odinson estate. “Not three miles yon,” he said, gesturing in a vaguely northwestern direction. Darcy squinted up at the sky. She assumed, at least, they were heading northwest. Certainly north. Everything had been north for days.

The land was pleasantly rolling, after what had been an eternity of hills and valleys and exceptionally moody heath. The scope of it was lovely in a capital-R Romantic way, and Darcy made a mental note to search for some good contemporary Scottish poetry at the soonest opportunity.  _ Hopefully this estate has a library _ , she mused, just as the estate in question came into view.

She knew gawking wasn’t polite, but her mouth fell open all the same. She might have snapped it back shut had she not seen Jane following suit.  _ Certainly big enough for a library _ , she thought.  _ Perhaps two. Anything less would be criminal. _

The great stone edifice before them had clearly been a mighty fortress in its original incarnation, but signs of refinement and civilization shone through. Some of the stone, in fact, looked as if it had been smoothed away, leaving a fashionable front that still retained rather irregular and round lines of mortar. The brothers, and a stately white-haired man who was presumably their father, stood out front to greet their visitors.

Darcy saw several more horses being led away to tack, and coaches bedecked in colorful insignia she hadn’t seen before. It seemed that, if they were not the very last to arrive, her small family was at least bringing up the straggling end of arrivals.

They alighted, the earl immediately going to greet the marquess with a hearty embrace. Not to be outdone, Darcy linked arms with Jane and pushed her along toward Thor and Loki. They managed to at least gracefully dip in some sort of conjoined half-curtsy, with Jane’s shining face turned squarely toward the elder brother and Darcy’s half-turned away from the younger. She’d caught a glimpse of his apparently permanent smirk, though, and felt rather betrayed by her own heartbeat.

“We welcome you, ladies, to Asgard,” Thor boomed proudly.

Darcy snorted and managed to turn it into a cough. “Do excuse me.” She felt Jane pinch the underside of her upper arm.

“An extraordinary name for an extraordinary home,” Jane said, looking at Darcy disapprovingly.

“An absurd affectation,” Loki muttered, which earned him his own soft box from Thor between the shoulder blades. Darcy felt a twinge of sympathy. Or perhaps that was simply a bruise blossoming where Jane had pinched a bit too hard.

“Please, come inside,” Thor continued. “There will be plenty of time to rest and recover from your travels before dinner.” He could hardly contain his excitement for the entire affair. It was, in fact, rather endearing.

Darcy pulled Jane along. “We thank you for your hospitality,” she said hurriedly, finding her own excitement in the prospect of a decently long lie-down. The pair followed a maid through the main hall, up enough stairs to make them short of breath, and down to the end of a longer hall. Their rooms faced opposite, and Jane pulled Darcy into her own room before Darcy could even begin to open her own door.

“Jane! Is it too much to ask to let me have an hour to myself?” Darcy crossed her arms and stood in the doorway.

“Please come in and close the door,” Jane replied, a slight note of panic in her voice.

Darcy relented. “Surely you can’t be so nervous about all this now.” She perched on the edge of the bed. “I would think that nerves would have been left behind on the mainland.”

“Apparently not.” Jane was pacing. “I don’t understand this  _ feeling _ I get around him.”

Darcy put on a wicked smile. “Dear, you’ve studied enough biology. I  _ think _ you’re perfectly aware.”

Jane groaned and put her face in her hands. “It’s one thing to know it academically and another to actually experience it, you know.”

“I wouldn’t,” Darcy said, feigning nonchalance.

“You must be joking.” Jane turned to stare at her sister. “What would you call those late nights writing your mysterious man? Purely intellectual sport?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” Darcy stood. “And I told you, there’s no mystery anymore.”

Now it was Jane’s turn to grin. “And he is the least mysterious man I’ve seen, at least where you’re concerned.”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m not blind. When he looks at you, he looks like he wants to devour you.”

Darcy sniffed. “I’m afraid he’d find the taste too bitter if he tried.” She started back toward the door. “Besides, he likely has some mealy-mouthed, acquiescent, pretty thing on the end of his line by now.”

“So you concede your mysterious Loki is a catch?” Jane stopped pacing and began to untie her traveling cloak.

Darcy pushed the door open and stepped out. “I concede to no longer having this discussion,” she said tartly. “Focus on your own biological impulses first, Lady Jane.”

“As you wish, Lady Darcy.” Jane pitched her voice low and mimicked Loki’s highbrow enunciation. She was answered with a slamming door.

When Darcy entered her own room, her eyes were immediately drawn to the sturdy desk in the corner. Jane’s room had no such accoutrement, and this one was neatly organized with pens, nibs, ink, and paper. In the center sat a crisply-folded letter. She considered ignoring it, but curiosity won out and she unfolded it.

_ Miss Lewis, _

_ I do confess your last missive contained more than a few wounding barbs. I do not deny that I’ve been accused of arrogance, but to be deemed “presumptuous and cavalier in even the most fundamental manners of decency” was a bit overmuch. So, too, was your assessment of my character, as I do not believe even the worst of one’s enemies could call any of my actions fraudulent or unscrupulous. I never laid out a timetable for reading your treatise, and one may argue that you were yourself presumptuous in bringing it for my enrichment. _

_ As to the contents of your persuasive argument itself, I do concede that I find your call for equal education outside of the home a fine one. However, I find some gaps in your argument: if, as your writing would suggest, education should be on equal footing for both sexes, should it not also be for all classes? I do not fault your omission, as many in higher society tend to forget those they deem below them, but if you call for radicalization, do so with gusto and without forgetting those at the margins. Not all orphans are as fortunate as you or I, to be brought into higher families. _

_ I have seen to your quarters personally, for I think you could wisely use your time here in the far reaches of the world, and I wish to continue our written correspondence even as we occupy the same estate. I fear our repartee may not be suitable for polite company, although I believe that this company could do with enlivening via spirited debate. However, I am not in charge of changing social custom, and as such have devised this alternative. Any replies you have may be placed with the usual outgoing post so as to divert curiosity. The staff have their instructions to discreetly extract and deliver our correspondence in the late hours of the evening. _

_ I eagerly await your reply. _

_ Loki _

_ P.S. Please, for the sake of both our sanities, I implore you to consider responding. I assure you, this is nothing more than a desire to avoid boredom for the next two weeks, and I believe you will soon find it preferable to the alternative, which is to listen to my brother and his compatriots regale you with stories of their repetitive and pedestrian antics on the Continent. _

Darcy sat the letter back down. The cheek! However, she had to confess it was intriguing. She tapped her lips briefly with her fingers before settling down at the desk chair, all notions of a nap forgotten, and dipped a nib in the pot of ink.

_ Master Laufeyson, _ she began.  _ I have half a mind to call you presumptuous a second time, but perhaps once was enough for your delicate constitution... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: a fresh host of characters, a little of Loki's point of view, and maybe this damn story will earn its M rating at last.


	4. Dinner, Discussions, and Damnable Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki is in as much denial as Darcy... or is he? He may have to take matters into his... heh heh... own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I Went There with all the extra characters. My hand slipped. I don't even know anymore. And don't worry, those who fear I may set this whole thing on fire too soon; I am simply blowing on the first few sparks to make sure they don't go out.

Loki had to admit that his brother had orchestrated an impressive party. Of course, Thor had always been one for revels and merriment, typically of the increasingly drunken variety, but an assemblage of such august persons as now inhabited the family castle was enough for Loki to nearly consider congratulating his brother on a job well done.

Nearly.

It wasn’t that they bore great animosity for one another; Thor seemed incapable of animosity toward anyone, and Loki’s true grievances didn’t lie with his good-hearted adoptive brother. No, the true thorn in Loki’s side (which he found ironic, knowing the origin of his “father’s” name) was Odin’s favoritism. Consciously done or not, it had been enough to needle Loki to the point of a permanent state of sarcastic indifference toward the man. Oh, he felt guilty at times. After all, Odin had always provided him with education, connections, and the chance to adopt the surname Odinson. (Odin, of course, maintained the conceit of his family's obsession with their ancestral bloodline, and was himself Odin Burrson.) But Loki was the first to admit that he was proud, and he preferred to hold onto his pride as his own unique possession, just as he did the name Laufeyson.

He considered these things, briefly, as one considers all the terrible facts that make up one’s life in the span of an instant. He felt a small push to relent in his pride, just this once. He leaned over to Thor as they stood at the ostentatiously large banquet table as the guests filed in. “Well done, brother.”

Thor smiled warmly and leaned over as well. “Well done yourself, for some of these men and women would never have been persuaded by my invitation alone.”

It was true. Loki had to intercede to write missives to the Countess, one of the poets, and one of the Americans, as Thor had likely offended all three in some form or fashion. Some, the Countess in particular, found his earnest demeanor more off-putting than endearing.

Soon, it caught Loki’s eye that while all of their guests had entered through the door closest to the stair that led to their rooms, Darcy Lewis slipped in through the door closest to the foyer. The foyer, where the post was collected. He cocked an eyebrow and let one corner of his mouth tug upward as he made eye contact with her. Darcy herself looked less flirtatious and more harried, with a few curls having sprung loose from her pinned style and her chest heaving to catch her breath.

In spite of himself, Loki found his eye briefly drawn to said chest. He marveled at how even in the higher-than-usual neckline of her dress there was still so much visible, and then suddenly felt uncomfortable as he felt all his blood rush in a more… southerly direction. He was grateful for the chance to sit when Odin soon came to the head of the table and gestured for everyone to do so.

Unfortunately, Darcy was still quite in his direct line of sight, even from the middle of the table. He might have stared resolutely forward, but even Thor would have found such direct attention from him unusual. He looked to his left and stifled a sigh. “Good evening, Rogers.”

Steven Rogers, up-and-coming senator from the United States, may have been the only human being to rival Thor when it came to goodness and pure intention. He nodded cordially. “Loki.” He then turned back to his companion to his left, the Countess Romanova. Loki didn’t mind. He might have gouged his own eyes out with the soup spoon if Steven Rogers had tried to make more than cursory conversation.

Now, the Countess Natasha Romanova would have been a more worthwhile dining companion. She regarded Loki with less coolness than she did his brother, which was to say with the same civility she granted everyone. Thor simply had the great misfortune to try flirting with her when they both served as minor emissaries to the Congress of Vienna. It was only when Loki wrote her to casually mention that the Viscount Barton would be at the party that she relented to accept the invitation.

Loki saw the viscount, who was seated to Thor’s right, lean over to the Lady Foster on his right to try a bit of conversation. He couldn’t quite hear what was said, but Jane looked none too pleased to be seated next to him.  _ A history _ , mused Loki,  _ or simply her wish to be next to my brother _ ? He hoped that he wouldn’t need to nudge Thor in Jane’s direction. He found the practice of interfering in others’ courtships distasteful, but he did know that his brother could be an oblivious Neanderthal when it came to women. Particularly those who were clearly interested.

Darcy leaned over her sister to pat Barton’s hand and smile apologetically. Loki bristled and had to remind himself, rather forcefully, that the two likely knew one another from London’s social circles. He also had to remind himself that, Miss Lewis’ loveliness notwithstanding, the girl was utterly insufferable and incapable of making an intellectual argument that did not resort to baseless insults. He shifted imperceptibly in his seat as his body reminded him that it didn’t find much about her particularly insufferable.

Oh, how he hated his mind losing a fight with his baser instincts.

To focus himself, he scanned over the rest of the guests seated to see that all were present and accounted for. Anthony Stark, the American steel manufacturer with grander ideas of expanding his business empire, was opposite Darcy. To Darcy’s right was the freedman, Nicholas Fury, who Loki still found a bit of a puzzle. It was Thor’s idea to invite him, and while Loki did not object, he knew little about him beyond his secluded residence on Orkney and Thor’s utter delight in his company.

Opposite Fury was George Gordon Byron, who Loki had personally seen to inviting. It was partly out of apology for Thor inadvertently stealing the affections of Byron’s lust object _du jour_ the year before, and partly because Loki found the man’s deviance and disregard for convention to be highly amusing.

Beside Byron sat the Earl of Essex, and Loki made a mental note to see to finagling the dinner arrangements for the rest of the stay to have the earl closer to the marquess. Opposite the earl sat a soft-spoken young chemist from Northumberland by the name of Bruce Banner. Stark had been delighted to hear of his attendance when Loki wrote to him, nattering on about how the Frenchman du Pont refused to go into business with him and how the Berzelius-trained Banner could be “a real asset to Stark Industry.”

Bringing up the end of the table were Mary Godwin and her paramour Percy Shelley. They seemed to go wherever Byron went, or Shelley went as Mary humored him along. Loki had most looked forward to spending more time in what he hoped would be deep intellectual discussion with the three writers, but he could see from at least the mooning expressions on the lovers’ faces that they wouldn’t be much use to anyone but themselves.

By now the chatter had swelled as food began to arrive at the table. At Thor’s insistence, coursing was not heavily followed, leaving everyone at the table sampling in the most haphazard manner imaginable. It was a dining style that suited Thor, but not one to which the other guests were accustomed. They all dug in gamely, though, and soon talk turned to introductions.

“We’ve known the viscount since we were young,” Darcy was saying to the Countess. Natasha’s look of interest must have carried an edge, though, as Darcy nervously continued. “He offended Jane by trying to bring her a dead pheasant when we were fifteen and she hasn’t been too fond of him since.”

“Darcy,” Jane whispered, but Darcy blundered forward.

“And of course I didn’t mind, but I wasn’t going to  _ touch _ a dead bird, even to see what it looked like on the inside. I thought Jane would  _ love _ that but no, of course she didn’t, and so no one was happy for days. I don’t know if any of us truly recovered.” She smiled at Barton. “It was the cleanest shot I’ve seen with an arrow, you know.”

Barton leaned toward the Countess. “I’ve gotten better, you know. Remember Hungary?”

“Of course I do,” Natasha said in her lightly accented English. “No blood on any of those swan feathers I needed.” The two shared a rather private-looking smile and Darcy’s eyes widened. She sat back and looked to the end of the table, directly at Loki.

Loki considered several options: scowling, averting his eyes, coolly staring back. Instead he blinked a few times in rapid succession and then found his bowl of almond soup to be extremely interesting instead. He missed the small crease between Darcy’s brows and her own shift in focus toward her plate.

Jane cleared her throat. “So, Master Stark--”

“Anthony,” he said. “Or Tony, like the Italians say. They’ve got a remarkable economy of language when they’re not, you know…” He gestured wildly. “Waving their hands around.”

“Tony,” Jane said slowly. “I understand that you have some interest in discovering unique alloys in your steel manufacture.”

“I am, Miss Foster. Is that correct? Miss?”

“ _ Lady _ Foster,” Jane said stiffly.

Loki smirked, pleased to hear someone making a fool of themselves. “You must be careful, Stark, with titles here on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Remind me of yours again?” Tony craned his head to stare at Loki. “Forgive my crass American ignorance of etiquette.”

Before Loki could reply, Darcy jumped in. “Titles are inconvenient, in my opinion.” She looked at Loki and raised her eyebrows, and he could only manage another slow blink in reply. She sighed. “You would think, for a country like ours, that titles wouldn’t matter so much.”

“Oh, they do,” said Nicholas Fury rather ominously. “Titles afford more freedom.”

“But are you not free here, by merit of being on British soil?” As soon as Darcy asked her question, silence descended on the table. As it grew longer, she began to grow redder.

Finally, Fury answered. “My freedom wasn’t so easy. Not… everyone… respects the Mansfield decision.” He tapped the patch over his missing eye. “Some need to be reminded forcefully.”

The table stayed silent a moment longer, with the only sounds being that of flatware busily clinking against plates. Loki saw Darcy industriously devouring large mouthfuls of braised lamb and mint jelly, and he felt some of his more uncomfortable desire…  _ deflate _ , much to his relief.

Stark finally broke the silence. “As you were saying, Lady Foster, I am fascinated with seeking improvements in iron alloys beyond the carbon of steel.” He cast his eye down the table toward Banner. “I read an essay on utilizing this new electromagnetic force to experiment with lighter metals. Wasn’t that yours, Banner?”

Bruce shook his head and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “You must be mistaken. I’ve been primarily focused on atomic theory in my studies in Sweden.”

“Come now, man.” Stark waved a fork to accent his point. “It was brilliant.  _ Surely _ it was you.”

“It was written by Lord John Grey,” Darcy interjected. Loki noted that she had grasped Jane’s hand, which was clenched in a fist, and that Jane’s eyes were shining. He looked to Thor, who was busily divesting a quarter of a hare of its bones and various spices.  _ Bluestocking isn’t the half of it _ , he thought.  _ I dare say this lady is too intelligent for him _ .

Conversation began to smooth, and dinner continued apace. Loki was irritated with all notions of retiring for brandy  _ or _ conversation, and politely excused himself to his own room. He thought he could almost feel Darcy’s eyes boring into his back as he made his escape.

Once he was safely ensconced in his own quarters, he strode to the table where he kept some of the more local spirit in a bottle. He poured a good three fingers into a tumbler and downed it, grimacing at the smoky peat flavor that burned all the way down to his belly. He poured a little more and sat to sip it more thoughtfully.

He was not an irrational man. Oh, he enjoyed literature, even some of the florid and excessive drafts that Byron had shown him on their last meeting in London, but he did not think it weakened his character or resolve when it came to matters of the opposite sex. He had done very well at resisting temptation thus far in his adult life, preferring the clearer head that came from abstaining from the ridiculous infatuations he had seen fell so many otherwise sensible men he’d known. And when he found lust too much to bear…

He was aware of his inconvenient erection that still doggedly remained, and had thought that perhaps ignoring it would cause it to go away eventually. He had remarkable willpower most of the time, but this…

He’d begun to consider unbuttoning his trousers to take care of the matter when he heard a soft sound from the door. He turned and saw an envelope on the floor. Immediately he sprang to his feet and crossed the room to retrieve and open it. He tried to tell his hands to stay still as he unfolded the single page inside.

_ Master Laufeyson, _

_ I have half a mind to call you presumptuous a second time, but perhaps once was enough for your delicate constitution. I am actually grateful for the desk and writing materials, as much as it pains me to say, for I neglected to bring my own. Oh, I’ll be honest with you - my father was quite stern with me when he saw how much paper I’d been using. I refuse to admit how many drafts my last letter required, but suffice to say I exceeded my month’s sheet allotment twofold. _

_ I will be blunt, as we have decided to reserve our impolite discourse for these missives: your damnable visage has been firmly entrenched in my mind ever since your egregious snub at the lecture hall. (Yes, I still think it egregious, and yes, I shall remind you until you concede to the fact.) I do not know what you are, to have this sort of effect upon me, and so my only reasonable conclusion is to think you a sorceror. However, your secret will be safe with me, so long as you apologize for your rudeness last month. _

_ Jane assures me that you might like to devour me, Loki Laufeyson, but I will assure you that you might not find the taste so sweet. _

_ D.L. _

Loki read the last line over and groaned. He thought of Darcy’s dark hair, piercing eyes, and softly rising chest as she’d come to the dinner table this evening, and he sat back down. He thought, rather dimly, that Darcy might be intentionally trying to provoke him, even as he downed the last of the Scotch and moved to unfasten his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any sharp-eyed Outlander fans out there spot the random Easter egg?


	5. Haggis and Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy is not in the practice of self-denial when it comes to matters of the stomach, at least when she's undisturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The encouraging comments and all the kudos have been amazing. Thank you all for reading my weird little project here! Apologies for the shorter chapter. I've worked double shifts all weekend, so my brain is thoroughly fried. I thought I'd give you all a LITTLE something, though.

When Darcy woke, only a hint of early gray dawn had begun to filter through the window. She considered turning right back over and going back to sleep when her stomach let her know that it had other plans. Sighing, she sat up. She knew that the society set was perfectly content to stay in bed until well into mid-morning, but her belly didn’t seem to care which social class she lived in.

She threw on a dressing gown and crept down the hall to the stairs, where she began to smell at least four different delicious things coming from below. She abandoned all pretense of moving around quietly and rushed down the stairs.  _ If anyone sees me like this _ , she reasoned,  _ they’ll be more embarrassed than I am _ .

The grand table from the night before already had the beginnings of a glorious buffet. Darcy snatched up a plate and began to pile it with sausage, bacon, eggs, a scone, some mushrooms, and a lump of something grayish-brown that she hoped was just some sort of savory pudding. She left just enough space to precariously balance a cup of tea and carefully opened the door where she’d come in the night before.

While looking for the place to leave her letter to Loki - a letter that she nearly blushed to think of, and attributed its last few sentences to fatigue from travel - she had surreptitiously gone searching for a library. She’d found it, and now with a full night’s sleep and the promise of a full stomach, she intended to explore it further.

The library looked even grander in the encroaching light of day. As Darcy strode in, she could see that the room branched off in places to create semi-private nooks. It sent a thrill down her spine. If she could spend her entire stay squirreled away in one of those corners, she might consider it time well spent.

She’d barely made it a few paces into the room when an enormous red hound came barreling toward her. Darcy yelped and instinctively moved her plate up to eye level, but the dog stopped and sat politely, its head tilted almost expectantly. Darcy laughed softly and offered it a link of sausage, which earned her an enthusiastic dog and a rather sloppy, slobbered-on hand. She patted the dog on the head with the reasoning that the creature seemed to enjoy it and that she wasn’t  _ really _ wiping her hand clean on its fur so much as she was transferring the dog’s matter back to it.

“Volstagg,” said a voice from around one of the corners Darcy couldn’t quite see. “Who’s there? Pay no mind to Volstagg, and  _ do not _ feed him.”

Darcy’s eyes widened and she bit her lip. “It’s, er…” She kept scratching Volstagg behind the ears, even as he’d begun to whine. “I fed him. I’m very sorry.”

Loki emerged from the small alcove with a sigh. “Miss Lewis,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll never be rid of the beast now.” When his eyes landed on Darcy’s rather comfortable state of dress, he raised his eyebrows slightly. Darcy thought she could see the faintest flush on his cheekbones.

Darcy handed Volstagg another piece of sausage. “There seem to be worse beasts one could have following them around.” She did her best to raise a single eyebrow but was afraid that the expression merely contorted her face into the realm of comedy.

It must have, for Loki visibly relaxed and clicked his fingers once for the dog to return to him. The dog, however, refused. Loki frowned. “He’s one of Thor’s. He doesn’t always listen to me.”

Darcy moved toward the most comfortable-looking chair nearest the window. Experimentally, she looked down at Volstagg. “Sit,” she said. The hound obeyed. She looked over her shoulder at Loki. “Only listens to Thor, does he?” She sat down in the chair and took a sip of the tea that had, miraculously, not fallen sideways through the whole encounter.

Loki frowned and crossed his arms. “Do you usually eat breakfast in strange libraries?” He cast a brief glance at Darcy’s plate. “And do you typically eat haggis?”

Darcy held up a hand. “Please, do not elaborate further.”

Loki’s slight smirk returned, which Darcy found a strange comfort. He was easier to dislike that way. “It is a rather robust food, from a robust people.”

Darcy took a forkful and chewed primly. “Master Laufeyson, I think even you cannot deny that I had to grow so robust somehow.” She gestured toward her body, particularly her chest, for emphasis.

The smirk disappeared. “My God, woman, are you doing that on purpose?” Loki’s voice sounded a bit strangled at the end of the question, and Darcy didn’t have to look terribly hard for the flush on his face this time.

The impossibly light feeling in Darcy’s head, and the warmth in the pit of her stomach, was much like what she’d felt the night before when she penned the last few words of her letter. She sat the teacup down on the small table beside her to avoid her shaking hand making any unseemly clattering sounds against the plate. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” she said, her words coming out more rushed than she meant them to. “Can a lady eat in peace, or is this library a place to harangue young women in lieu of typical library pursuits?”

Loki still looked flustered even as he knit his brows and affected the same sarcastic bow he’d done in the Foster drawing room. “As you please.” He turned and disappeared back around the corner and Darcy heard him settle down into a chair.

Darcy turned her attention back to her breakfast plate. She frowned and poked at the haggis, which was rather oddly delicious for something she suspected was utterly disgusting in origin, and began to methodically eat the rest of the food on her plate instead. She hated to think of anything going cold and therefore to waste, even if her appetite had suddenly diminished after speaking to Loki. She eyed the hound still at her feet and shrugged. Waste was an unlikely prospect after all. She sat the plate down and Volstagg eagerly began to eat as if it was what he’d been born to do. Darcy stood and took her rapidly-cooling tea and did her best to creep quietly out.

When she came to her room, she resisted the urge to hurl the teacup against the wall. Instead, she sat it down on the writing desk and turned to fall back on the bed. She sighed and burrowed back down into the blankets and, for once, rather regretted following her stomach's lead.


	6. Ladies at Luncheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Jane become acquainted with their fellow female compatriots in the house. Ideas are sown from several quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I promise I haven't abandoned this fic! Life has a way of distracting us from the more important things, like telling fun stories.

Midday turned out to be a more agreeable time for Darcy to fully emerge from her quarters. She took more care with dressing this time, and as a result had to cross the hall to ask Jane for help with some lacing in the back.

“You know, there’s an entire staff here that can help dress you,” Jane said mildly. 

“And you know that I still don’t like even our own household staff helping me more than necessary.” Darcy knew she sounded a little too cross, but Jane didn’t seem to notice or very much mind. “What thrilling things do our hosts have planned for us today?”

“They, and all the rest of the men in the house, have gone out to hunt.” Jane pushed Darcy toward a chair to start to work on her hair.

Darcy kept her face composed as she looked at Jane in the mirror. “Even Loki? He doesn’t strike me as the sporting type.”

Jane finished her twisting and pinning. “I wouldn’t have thought so either, but apparently that awful Lord Byron persuaded him to go.”

“Now there’s a pair.” Darcy stood. “What was it the gossips were saying they’d heard from Caroline Lamb? Mad, bad--”

“And dangerous to know,” said Jane and Darcy at the same time. They laughed as they made their way out of the room.

Jane leaned conspiratorially toward Darcy. “And would you say Loki fits all those criteria?”

“And more, I would think.”

“Or it might be what he wants you to think.”

Darcy stopped walking. “Pardon?”

Jane turned and gave as delicate a shrug as befits a lady. “You wouldn’t say that’s his way? To cultivate how he’s perceived?”

Darcy crossed her arms. “What do you have to support this hypothesis, lady scientist?”

Jane began to tick off the reasons on her fingers. “First, his rather elaborate turns of phrase in his letters with you. Second, his  _ exceptionally _ affected mannerisms when speaking to you in otherwise perfectly polite company. Third, the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking.”

This last line of reasoning had Darcy rather visibly ruffled. “And you’ve been spending your time looking at him instead?”

Jane folded her hands and smiled. “You did call me a scientist, and the work of the scientist is observation.”

Darcy bit her lip and considered her next question carefully. “And do you have your own observations of Thor?”

“Thor is intelligent, but not nearly as prone to take care with his persona, or to take care with the sensibilities of those around him,” Jane replied dismissively.  Her face seemed to close a bit, her smile fading only the tiniest fraction.

Darcy took Jane’s hand and marched them both down the stairs. “Well, dear sister, we may be able to devise something to cure him of his carelessness yet.” She was relieved to find a purpose beyond the exhausting verbal sparring with Loki. It was apparent that Jane was enamored with Thor, as boisterous and bawdy as he might be, and Darcy was never one to pass up the opportunity to engineer a social situation in her sister’s favor. Jane, while far from incapable of holding her own with the opposite sex, tended to have a rather high-minded view of her own purpose being greater than that of a potential wife. Come to think of it, Darcy rather admired that view.  _ But _ , she thought,  _ no one said anything about seeking proposals _ .

When they entered the drawing room - rather far from the library, Darcy noted gratefully - the Countess Romanova and Mary Shelley were already seated and in deep conversation. The Countess looked up and nodded, her lips pursed in what Darcy presumed to be a friendly smile, and gestured to the chairs on her other side. “Good afternoon, Lady Foster and Miss Lewis.”

Jane sat as Darcy took her own chair and dragged it around to form a semi-circle so to better see everyone else. She ignored Jane’s glare and sat. “Good afternoon, Countess.” She flashed her most brilliant smile, at which the Countess quirked an eyebrow, and nodded at Mary. “Mrs. Shelley.”

“Oh, Mary is fine.” Mary settled back in her seat. “First names are so much easier.”

Darcy immediately took a liking to Mary Shelley. “I agree.” She turned her smile back to the Countess.

Countess Romanova let out the barest sigh through her nose and her lips curled upward. “With our shared proximity in the coming weeks, it might be best, yes.” She straightened her shoulders back. “Natasha, if you please.”

Darcy clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. And now that we’ve settled names, have we settled on lunch?”

Mary started. “Is it that time already? My, how it all flies by.” She turned back to Natasha. “But I would love to continue this discussion on Zhukovsky as soon as possible.”

Darcy wasted no time in standing right back up, in hopes her companions would do the same. “Zhukovsky? He translated Thomas Gray’s Elegy, correct?”

Natasha also stood and regarded Darcy with closer scrutiny. “Yes, he did.” She looked at Mary. “I did not know another of your writers was joining us.”

“Do you write, Darcy?” Mary took Darcy’s arm with rather disconcerting familiarity. The small troupe of ladies began to file from the drawing room, with a rather disgruntled-looking Jane bringing up the rear. “I thought you were more scientist, like your sister.”

Darcy thought fleetingly of bringing the conversation back around to include Jane, but something took hold and she suddenly felt as though she finally had her chance to shine. “I wouldn’t say I write, Mary, so much as read voraciously.  _ Including _ your late mother’s great Vindication.”

Mary smiled. “She had many admirers, and perhaps even more critics.”

Darcy felt light and, for once in her life, on the correct footing. “And I recently finally had the chance to read your husband’s Queen Mab.”

“And did you notice his use of Ianthe?” Mary’s eyes were practically sparkling now at this new turn in conversation.

“If you mean in reference to Byron’s own cantos, I had noticed the name, but as to similarities…” Darcy and Mary continued as they walked to the dining room a few paces ahead of Jane and Natasha.

Jane stared at Darcy’s back ruefully. “I suppose I should have read more of those poets. I had no idea how much she loves it all.”

Natasha tilted her head as she looked toward the pair in front of them. “We cannot all be poets, or even artists.” She inclined her head slightly toward Jane. “Or published scientists.”

Jane blushed. “How do you mean, Coun--- Natasha?”

Natasha’s eyes showed a little mirth. “Lord John Grey has had some revolutionary ideas for a man not seen in London even once.”

“And you spend much time in London?”

Natasha smiled like a cat high on its own perch. “I spend time in many places, Jane Foster.” She gestured toward the dining room door left ajar. “Come, our luncheon waits.”

Darcy was industrious in matters of food, and for all her reluctance to ask for assistance in matters of her own toilette, she was quick to direct the first footman to procure a well-packed picnic basket. There was no reason, she decided, for the men to have all the fun enjoying the relatively nice weather out of doors. She barreled out the door without even thinking to ask where the gardens might be, if there were any gardens to be had, with her three companions bringing up a bemused rear.

The day couldn’t quite be called sunny, but it wasn’t drearily overcast like the day before, and so Darcy was satisfied with her decision to go in search of a place to picnic lunch. When she found the gardens - quite nice, for something located out on what she considered a miserable spit of land in the North Sea - she dramatically unfolded the blanket the footman had provided her. “We might almost be in a civilized garden!”

Natasha, surprisingly, helped spread the blanket out and sat down with as much gusto allowed by all the appropriately mysterious aplomb characteristic of her bearing. “There is a rustic charm to this island,” she said as she helped Darcy unpack the basket.

“As rustically charming as Thor, I suppose.” Darcy waggled her eyebrows at Jane, which did not go unnoticed by Natasha or Mary. Jane scowled and tore a chunk of bread in a most unladylike fashion.

Mary sighed happily. “Don’t discount passion, Jane.” She cut her own bread and cheese with more finesse. “I will never regret telling Percy directly just how besotted I was with him when we met.”

“Besotted,” Darcy echoed, and began slicing an apple. She waved the small knife toward Jane. “Maybe such confessions would cause Thor to finally notice anything beyond his own nose.”

Jane blushed a fierce red. “Absolutely not.” She went in for her own wicked jab. “But it  _ would _ be better than playing at loathing.”

Now it was Darcy’s turn to flush. “We are talking about your own infatuation, sister dear.”

“I know this is a family matter,” interrupted Natasha. “But if I might offer my own advice…”

Jane and Darcy both stopped their bickering at that and turned in open-mouthed silence. Darcy spoke first. “You mean you aren’t the Russian Snow Queen?”

“That fairytale is Danish,” Natasha retorted. “And I simply have more care in how I place my… affections. But never for naught.”

For her part, Mary was watching this exchange with a private smile, presumably delighted that she was finally entertained by antics that weren’t those of her husband or his friend. She continued nibbling her luncheon in silence as Natasha began to lay bare her knowledge of the coarser sex, and the two members of said sex in particular that seemed to have vexed the London sisters beyond all good sense.

“Thor is not an oaf,” Natasha began. “He simply requires an opportunity for focus. I know your English customs dictate supervision at all times. However…” She trailed off, thinking, while evidently enjoying the rapt attention Jane paid her. “You must simply create this opportunity, or allow someone to create it for you.”

“Would you?” Jane’s food was forgotten as she leaned in toward the Countess.

“We might discuss it when we discuss the writings of your acquaintance Lord John Grey.” Natasha’s face had that inscrutably satisfied housecat look again, and she turned to Darcy. “As for you, Darcy…”

“I don’t need any assistance,” Darcy said hurriedly. She busied herself with arranging the slices of apple in her lap.

“Correct. You seem to have the matter well in hand. But be careful what you wish for when it comes to Loki.” Natasha finally began to prepare her own lunch with delicate precision.

Darcy frowned and shook her head to clear it. She chewed thoughtfully and resolved to keep Loki firmly in the back of her mind while she did her best to help Jane contrive a closer conversation with Thor.

 

* * *

 

Dinner passed disappointingly uneventfully, with the men in rather high spirits about the grouse they had managed to shoot for the next evening’s meal. Darcy noticed that Loki had managed to situate himself with Byron and Shelley, engrossed in conversation and very much at the other end of the table. She quashed the annoying shoot of disappointment that threatened to blossom in her stomach and spent the meal engaging Bruce Banner in conversation. She knew just enough about chemistry to stay involved as he excitedly launched into the atomic theories he’d been exploring of late, and she found his enthusiasm endearing, but she was still thankful when the opportunity came to retire early to bed.

Waiting on her bed was an envelope, her name written in that unmistakable script. She looked around suspiciously, wondering if Loki had managed to slip upstairs somehow, before reassuring herself that she was being exceptionally paranoid and that the staff was one of the most quietly efficient she’d ever seen.

She decided to save the letter for after she had dressed for bed, which proved a small challenge as she picked at the knot Jane had tied in her laces. Once she had finally relaxed into a nightgown, she settled into the pillows and opened the letter.

_ Miss Lewis, _

_ I’m afraid that the time for decorum and pretense is coming to a swift end. The conclusion of your last missive, combined with your appearance in the sanctum of my library this morning, leads me to believe that you have intentions of a baser type than a simple exchange of wit. Normally, I would find such notions repulsive, but our forced proximity and what I must admit are not insignificant charms on your part have led me to continue this torturous game of cat-and-mouse we now find ourselves in. _

_ I confess, I do not know whether I am cat or mouse, for all your lewd comments about my devouring your person. After all, you are as self-satisfied and vexing as the haughtiest housecat. Furthermore, I felt quite cornered in the library this morning, and you seemed to have no intention other than toying with your hapless prey. And I do feel hapless, and helpless, Miss Lewis, as much as it pains me to admit. I dare not even fully admit to you the utter youthful folly you’ve driven me to twice - twice! - in a twelve-hour period, but perhaps you can ask your friend the Viscount if you require further erudition. I do not know how well-versed you are in some of the more debased habits of men. _

_ I cannot promise you may find me in the library again of a morning, but I also cannot promise that I may remain so civilized if you do happen upon me again, so I would advise you to avoid the library completely. _

_ LL _

Darcy only noticed when she was finished reading that she was breathing rather heavily and she’d gripped the edges of the page so hard that it had begun to crumple. She sat the letter down and lay fully back on the bed, turning its words over in her mind.

If there was one thing Darcy Lewis abhorred, it was being told she could not do something.


	7. Parlors and Parleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane remains hopeless, Darcy feigns illness, and the elusive Lord Byron finally makes his entrance.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that for every pleasant day in Scotland, there are two of a much drearier makeup. So it was on the second morning of the Orkney party, with a pervasive and heavy drizzle that threatened to become full-blown rain at a moment’s notice. Darcy drew back the curtains in disgust. “An altogether horrid country,” she muttered to herself as rivulets began to form on the window.

 

She turned back to the writing desk in the corner. Her latest missive to Loki remained untouched beyond its cursory greeting, which she found comically banal, considering the increasingly unconventional content of their correspondence. She sighed. The situation was irritatingly appealing, and Darcy hated feeling as though she’d been pegged even as she thrilled at finally meeting her match in wit and barbs.

 

There was a knock at the door. Darcy started. “Jane?”

 

It was, in fact, Jane who opened the door, and she shut it quietly before flinging herself down onto Darcy’s bed and burying her face into a pillow. She groaned and mumbled something unintelligible.

 

“Jane.” Darcy marched over to the bed and shook her sister’s shoulder. “Jane, histrionics are unbecoming on you. Those are firmly reserved for my realm of experience.”

 

Jane lifted her face. “How can  you stand it?”

 

“Stand what?” Darcy crossed her arms.

 

“Having these kinds of feelings and keeping a level head and keeping Loki at arm’s length!” Jane let loose a rather uncharacteristic sigh and buried her face back into the pillow.

 

“Sister, you’ve lost your mind.” Darcy sat down and awkwardly reached a hand out to pat Jane’s mussed hair. “First of all, there are no feelings to be had in my quarter---”

 

“Oh do stop.” Jane turned over. “You can tell yourself that there are no feelings all day long, but even the Countess had something to say about it.”

 

“I still think she’s some kind of witch.”

 

“Hardly.” Jane pushed herself to sitting. “You know, we’re all going to be stuck inside this house today.”

 

Darcy rolled her eyes heavenward. “God help us all.”

 

“I was thinking…” Jane knotted her fingers together in her lap. “Would you help me?”

 

“Help you court the Lord of Orkney, you mean?” Darcy fought back a smile. “Jane, what has gotten into you?”

 

“None of the right things,” Jane muttered. She blushed furiously at Darcy’s belly laugh. “I didn’t mean…”

 

“Of course you did.” Darcy stood up and tugged on Jane’s hand. “For now let’s just get some breakfast into you. Social engineering can’t be done on an empty stomach.”

 

This time, Darcy made sure she was decent before even thinking of leaving the wing that contained their rooms. The sheet of paper on the desk still bore nothing beyond the pointed “Master Laufeyson…” across the top in painstakingly deliberate writing. Darcy shook her head. She had a larger mission ahead, and the less she considered how to engage Loki, the better.

 

Jane and Darcy proceeded downstairs to find that they were apparently the last of the household to do so. Another sumptuous breakfast had been laid for the taking, and once more Darcy attacked what was left of the spread with aplomb, ignoring Jane’s sighs of exasperation. “Do you think everyone has taken their food back to their rooms?” She asked this around a mouthful of bacon, to Jane’s chagrin.

 

“By and large,” came a voice from behind them.

 

Darcy spun around and clutched at her heart theatrically. “Natasha, you have to stop doing that.”

 

The Countess merely smiled and sipped the tea she was holding. “Apologies. If you would like to come to the drawing room, some of us have gathered there to find some sort of amusement for the day.”

 

“Amusement?” Darcy took an experimental bite of more haggis and wondered if it was truly as awful in origin as she’d been led to believe.

 

“Thor seems partial to the idea of discovering the most absurd parlor game and forcing everyone to participate,” Natasha said drily. 

 

Darcy pulled a face at Jane, but Jane looked thoughtful. “That doesn’t seem so bad,” Jane said. “And I know Darcy loves parlor games.”

 

Darcy frowned. “Oh… oh no, I’ve… I think I’ve eaten something off.” She made a show of clutching at her stomach. “Whatever this blasted haggis is made of doesn’t agree with me.”

 

“Sheep intestines? I would think so,” said Natasha. She gave Darcy a knowing look and took Jane’s arm amidst the latter’s protests. “Come with me, Jane. I think Darcy needs to retire for the day.”

 

Darcy made her best sickly moue and leaned against a chair for emphasis. “Don’t let me keep you from having so much…  _ fun _ .” She feigned ignorance at Jane’s suspicious glare. “Intestines, Jane. I’ve eaten  _ intestines _ .” Before Jane could come up with a retort, Darcy made a show of staggering towards the door adjoining the corridor to the library, clutching her midsection all the while.

 

Natasha could barely suppress a smile as she guided Jane in the opposite direction. “If I didn’t know better, I would say Darcy doesn’t love parlor games whatsoever,” she sad in a deceptively light tone.

 

“But she does,” said Jane, even as she allowed the Countess to lead her away. “Don’t you, Darcy?”

 

“Intestines,” Darcy called from the back of the dining room. “I may very well die.” She ducked out and headed toward the library. “Bloody parlor games,” she muttered to herself as she barreled into the open library door with her head down. “Whoever invented them ought to be shot.”

 

“I’m inclined to agree.”

 

Darcy started at this new and not altogether unpleasant male voice. She looked up and turned her head to her left to see a figure sprawled out on a window seat, all affectatious languor and practiced ease. Darcy arched an eyebrow. “Did you practice that posture in the mirror, Lord Byron?”

 

“He does daily.”

 

Darcy stifled a groan at this all-too-familiar voice coming from another nearby alcove. “And I’m sure you practice your skulking about thrice daily, Master Laufeyson.”

 

Loki’s head rounded the corner just beyond where Byron sat. “Skulking is an art form that must be maintained at all times, Miss Lewis.” He withdrew back into his chair. “Didn’t I warn you about barging into my library unannounced?”

 

“Your library?” Darcy strode to a table where several books lay stacked and open. “I wasn’t aware that you had ownership of this particular corner of the estate.”

 

Byron craned his head and glanced back and forth between Loki and Darcy with obvious amusement. “Do you care to introduce me to the lady, Loki, or will I have to take matters into my own hands?”

 

“I hear you take many a matter into your own hands, George Gordon,” Darcy quipped.

 

Byron let out a heavy sigh. “Lord Byron, if you please.” He leaned back against the window. “Now what was this about parlor games?”

 

“One of my brother’s ideas, I expect,” interrupted Loki. He also leaned back and opened the book in his hands back to the page he had been on. “I do wonder how you managed to escape, Miss Lewis.”

 

Darcy sat down at the table. “It wasn’t too difficult to look deathly ill once I learned just what haggis is made of.” She picked up a slim volume and turned it over in her hands. “ _ Lyrical Ballads _ ? One of my favorites.”

 

“Those old sots?” Byron scoffed. “Wordsworth is doddering, rambling on about clouds and Wales and idiot boys. And Coleridge isn’t much better, the poor opium-addled fool.”

 

“I find them both lovely and expressive of a mature view on life and the follies of man,” Darcy fired back. “I know not all of us find it fashionable to rhyme, but it certainly adds an element of cohesiveness to their stanzas.”

 

Now it was Loki’s turn to look amused. “I’d be careful with this one, Byron,” he said. “She’s certainly well-read, and not nearly as easily impressed as some of the other young ladies you invite to your poetry readings.”

 

Darcy smirked. “Is it called a poetry reading, now?” She opened the copy of  _ Lyrical Ballads _ . “Have I stumbled upon one in this library and not even known it?”

 

At this, Byron let out a bark of laughter rather incongruous with his perpetually disdainful affect. “I’ve read my share of poetry with many, Miss Lewis, but I must admit that I’ve found Master Laufeyson altogether not to my own taste.”

 

“He prefers the impressionable,” Loki said mildly, casting a furtive glance toward Darcy to see just how scandalized she was by this talk.

 

Darcy flicked through the pages of the book. “I hear you made quite the impression on Lady Caroline Lamb.”

 

“Oh, not her again!” Byron pulled his lips into a pout and drew his brows down. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” he mimicked in a sing-song voice. “One wonders if she was speaking of herself instead of me.”

 

Had Byron been more observant of what happened beyond his own nose, he might have seen Darcy briefly clenching her fists and her eyes flashing fire. As it was, George Gordon, Lord Byron, was too busy chuckling at his own comments to see that a rather thick volume had been lobbed at his head until it was far too late. He yelped most indecorously and rubbed the spot on his brow where the spine of the book had made contact. “What was that for?”

 

Darcy stood, once more holding  _ Lyrical Ballads _ . “Merely a suggestion, Lord Byron.” She nodded at him primly before turning toward Loki. “I must say, Master Laufeyson, that I expected you to keep better company.”

 

“Fortunately for us both, the company I keep is my business,” Loki replied smoothly. He stood and went to pick up the book that Darcy had thrown. “A Bible, Miss Lewis?”

 

“In my estimation, Lord Byron could use a bit of holy writ.” Darcy paused on her way out of the library and considered another thick tome on the eye-level shelf closest to the door. “However, if Jehovah seems a bit too gentle or doddering, I might suggest some sterner stuff.” She pulled the book from its place and cradled it in her arms atop  _ Lyrical Ballads _ .

 

When Darcy seemed a safe distance gone, Loki finally strode to the shelf by the door. He peered closely at the neat line of books all so sturdy that they remained standing around the space left by the one Darcy had taken. They were all bound in the same deep brown leather, gone faded with age and spiderwebbed all over with infinitesimal cracks from repeated handling. The gold embossing had worn away, leaving only the faintest imprint of titles along the spines. To the right of the empty space he could see the faint print:  _ Poetic Edda _ . “So she’s taken the prose,” he murmured to himself. “Sterner stuff indeed.”

 

“I must say, were it not for her physical charms, I would find your preoccupation with Miss Lewis an utter mystery,” said Byron grumpily. He had settled back into the window seat and was thumbing through the pages of the Bible that had left the faint bruise now blossoming along his left temple. “Holy writ, my arse. There’s an entire book in here about breasts and bedding, you know.”

 

“The only one you’ve read, I’m sure,” replied Loki. He was still staring at the shelf of Nordic literature, his arms crossed in front of him and his brow furrowed in thought. He blinked and shook his head slightly before turning back to face his incorrigible friend. “Now, tell me more about this melancholic nonsense you claim is inspired by this countryside.”

 

Byron launched into a lengthy diatribe on the necessity of melancholy and the suffering of his own soul, gesticulating toward the increasingly heavy rain all the while, and Loki settled back down into his seat to half-listen. The other half of his mind was still lost in considering the  _ Edda _ .

 

* * *

 

As Darcy had suspected, she hadn’t missed much in dodging the drawing room antics of the morning and early afternoon. In fact, it appeared as if no one had much fun even as they gamely worked to make the indoor amusement as interesting as possible.

“I’m afraid there’s no helping it,” Jane said rather morosely as she sat at the end of Darcy’s bed. “Even if you had been there, I don’t think even the most outlandish attempts at social engineering would have worked to my advantage.”

 

Darcy herself had constructed a nest of pillows to lay upon in an effort to look as ill as she’d pretended to be that morning. Fortunately, Jane was too preoccupied to notice that Darcy was not quite as wan as one might expect. She lifted her head slightly. “You underestimate yourself, Jane.”

 

“Do I?” Jane stood and went to the door. “I would expect that something might have happened by now, were I as delightful and irresistible as you claim.”

 

Darcy huffed and lay back down. “There’s no talking to you. We’ve only been here for two days - not even! - and I dare say your expectations of courtship are ridiculous enough to have been influenced by novels.” When there was no reply, she turned her head to see that Jane had slipped out. With a sigh, Darcy extracted herself from the mass of pillows and blankets to go sit at the writing desk.

 

_ I’m afraid _ , she began beneath the greeting of her letter,  _ that we shall have to put our own sparring aside if I am to retain my sanity for the remainder of this stay. You see, my sister and your brother are both incredibly dense when it comes to matters of the heart. I propose a truce, and perhaps a welcome distraction... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *muffled strains of Elton John's "The Bitch Is Back" in the distance*
> 
> That's right, I'm BACK. I know you all come here for the fic and not my life story, so I'll give a brief summary: spent the better part of this past year pregnant and preoccupied with work and baby prep, had said infant in September, and am finally getting used to the whole caring-for-a-small-human thing. Inspired by NaNoWriMo, I've come back to the page and abandoned my delusions of literary grandeur to write what I write best: Tasertricks ridiculata. And I'm so, so glad to be back.


	8. Ballads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy learns of old songs and surprising hidden talents.

_ Master Laufeyson, _

_I’m afraid that we shall have to put our own sparring aside if I am to retain my sanity for the remainder of this stay. You see, my sister and your brother are both incredibly dense when it comes to matters of the heart._ _I propose a truce, and perhaps a welcome distraction from what you yourself termed youthful follies. We are adults, not youth, and it is high time our siblings also learned to conduct themselves as adults._  

_I must admit that I am at a loss as to how we can bring the two fools together. I suspect you have no great expertise in matters of courtship either. However, we absolutely must come to a way forward, lest I pitch my sister - whom I love dearly, you must understand - out the window of my room._  

_ I hope you accept this olive branch, or you may follow Jane on an untimely fall from a great height. _

_ DL _

Loki couldn’t help but chuckle at the last line. He folded the letter and placed it with Darcy’s other missives in the drawer of his desk. A truce would be welcome indeed, particularly one that would result in focusing his brother’s attentions elsewhere. Perhaps it would even result in a marriage, which would result in a honeymoon, which would mean at least two weeks’ time without Thor’s exhausting presence. Loki consulted his pocket watch to find that he had a mere thirty minutes before dinner. He quickly drew a clean sheet of paper towards him and began a hasty reply.

* * *

 

“You mean to say that in the grand Scottish ballad tradition---” Darcy waved her fork in a sweeping circle for emphasis. “In the grand Scottish ballad tradition, there is a popular story of a pregnant king’s daughter---”

“Several,” Percy interrupted. He and Mary sat opposite Darcy at the dinner table, and Byron was to her right. “And so often the poor girls are named Janet, or Margaret, and there is no mother to be found to warn her of the consequences of easing her loneliness.”

Darcy found herself inching away from Byron as much as possible within the confines of their seating, even as he leaned over at regular intervals to leer suggestively in the general direction of her neckline. With her last sweeping circle of her hands she swiped the tines of the fork within an inch of Byron’s aquiline nose. “But in this particular ballad, ‘Willie O’ Winsbury,’ the king gives dear Janet to her lover with the reasoning that if he were a woman he also would have slept with Willie?” 

“Just so.” Mary said. “I wonder how often such things happened in reality.” 

“Not often enough, I’m sure.” Darcy was satisfied to see that Byron had apparently received her more directly violent message and was back to a respectable distance. His eyes still roamed quite licentiously, though, and she suppressed a grimace. “I should like to hear some of these ballads. You wouldn’t happen to sing, would you, Master Shelley?” 

“Oh, don’t get him started,” said Byron. “He’d gladly sing for you, but you won’t be happy about it.”

Darcy started to open her mouth in protest but was interrupted by Mary. “He’s right, I’m afraid.” She patted Percy’s hand when he pulled a wounded frown. “You never want for enthusiasm, my love, but enthusiasm does not a fine singer make.”

“Rogers might know some.” Tony Stark, seated on Percy’s other side, gestured toward Steven Rogers, who sat to Darcy’s left. “Your family’s Scottish, right?”

“Scots-Irish,” Steven said. “Not very Scottish at all, actually. Maybe they were once, but they lived in Ulster for so long they’re more Irish than anything.”

“But they kept the ballad tradition?” Darcy asked with genuine interest. She’d found the American politician a bit dull, if genial, but now wondered if he might have more depths than she’d initially assumed.

“Singing is a good way to keep warm in the mountain winters.” Steven smiled. “I can’t promise I’m much better than Percy here, but I do know my fair share of songs thanks to my ma.”

“You must sing for us after dinner!” Darcy beamed back at Steven and pointedly ignored the sudden prickle she felt at the back of her neck. She was certain that if she turned her head back to her right, she would see a green-eyed glower from somewhere beyond Byron’s ridiculous sneering. Instead, she leaned a bit closer to Steven. “I promise, none of us will laugh at your voice.”

Steven chuckled. “You may not be able to keep your promise.”

“What this about singing?” Thor’s voice came from a little farther down the table. “Rogers, don’t sell yourself short. The women of New York love to hear your singing.” He raised his wineglass and took a rather indecorous gulp. “How you’ve remained unmarried is a mystery to us all.”

“Not a mystery to some,” stage-whispered Tony to Percy.

Darcy saw the color drain from Steven’s face. She began to mentally scramble about for a way to save him from embarrassment while also making note of the tension between Stark and Rogers. “What are some other traditional ballads you know, Master Rogers?”

Steven’s jaw had clenched, but at Darcy’s question he slowly relaxed. “Bonny Barbara Allen, Fair Margaret and Sweet William, and Tam Lin, to name a few.” His gaze turned back to Darcy. “Tragic stories of dying lovers seem to be a common theme.”

“Oh, but not the last one.” Percy had swooped back into the conversation, apparently oblivious to the brief moment of tension that had hung over the table. “A story of a brave woman’s rescue of her lover from the fairy realm, all for the love of the child she will bear him.”

“So women in this country are either dying or pregnant,” remarked Darcy. “How charming.”

“Or witches,” Percy said, clearly believing he was being helpful.

Darcy and Mary shared a look. Mary smiled and shook her head, and Darcy couldn’t help but smile back. “At least there is some liberation in witchcraft,” she said. 

* * *

 

True to Thor’s statement, Steven Rogers had quite a melodious voice. The assembled party had eschewed traditional separation of the sexes and retired to all sip brandy by the fire as Steven stood and sang a few of the old Scots-Irish and border ballads he had learned at his mother’s knee. 

“He plucked thirty strands of her long golden hair, cried o’ the dreadful wind and rain…” Rogers had a clear tenor voice that commanded silence from his audience, and the only other sound came from the lashing of the rain at the window. Even Thor’s three hounds lay quietly. Two were at their master’s feet, but Volstagg had gone to sit by Darcy. She scratched behind his ears and, when no one was looking, slipped a morsel of roasted grouse from a folded napkin hidden in the folds of her skirt. 

“And the only tune that the fiddle would play was o’ the dreadful wind and rain.” Rogers’ voice trailed a bit at the end of “The Twa Sisters.” A hush descended, even from the storm outside. 

Darcy shivered. “That was lovely,” she murmured. She cast a glance about the room. Everyone looked pensive, save Loki, who sat just beyond the fire and swirled his brandy. He raised his glass and stared at Darcy over the rim for just a moment too long before taking a sip. Darcy found herself shivering again.

* * *

 

Darcy was not a little surprised to already see a response awaiting her. However, instead of being slipped beneath the door, this missive had been laid atop the bed. She felt that prickle at the back of her neck again and turned around, half-expecting to see Loki behind her. She fought down disappointment when she saw only the empty doorway.

_ Miss Lewis, _

_ I accept this truce of yours wholeheartedly. You are correct; youthful follies are unbecoming on us both, and we must take upon ourselves the onerous task of making sure our siblings can outgrow the same. Funny, isn’t it, how our elder siblings aren’t nearly as mature and refined?  _

_There will be a market day in the village nearby in two days' time. If we are to conspire, let us devise a way to bring Thor and the Lady Jane together on this day. I will suggest a jaunt at tomorrow's dinner. I trust your powers of persuasion are such that you can entice your sister to come along without much effort._

_On a topic wholly unrelated to this new diversion, I must express interest in your choice of reading materials. I wonder how familiar you are with the tales of the Prose and Poetic Edda, and wish to discuss this with you at length tomorrow. Fear not; for the sake of propriety I have also invited Byron and the Shelleys to join us in the library for breakfast in the morning._

_Until tomorrow,_

_LL_


	9. Banter and Brodgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy learns more about her new friends, the lay of the land, and her own inexplicable case of nerves.

Darcy stared at the thicket of hair pins she’d left in a heap the night before. She picked one up, examined it, and put it back down. “A plait it is,” she said, reaching for the boar bristle brush and a violet ribbon.

She had awoken far too early, stomach fluttering, and could not for the life of her fall back asleep. Instead she had paced to the window and stared at the waxing moon, grown impatient, paced back to the bed, then to the writing desk, and then back to the bed to fall backward into the tangle of linens. She stared at the ceiling, mind racing, for the better part of an hour as the late night faded into early dawn.

Ever since borrowing the  _ Prose Edda _ from the library, she’d begun to wonder at the true nature of their hosts. Logic dictated that their names, natures, and native dwelling were, at the very most, an “absurd affectation,” as Loki had put it on the day of the guests’ arrival. Darcy was certain that it was only a creeping madness brought on by staying cooped up in a manor on the arse-end of civilization that could possibly suggest anything more. She stood, determined to push the thought from her mind, and found herself instead contemplating how to tame her hair before breakfast.

Darcy had none of Jane’s patience when it came to the art of the coiffure. She tugged the brush through the thick, dark mass, wondering all the while how it was possible for a single human to have so much hair. After several minutes’ struggle with the largest offending tangles, she threw the brush to the floor and began to make her best effort with gathering her hair into a single large braid over her shoulder. “This is why you braid it at night, Darcy,” she grumbled as she secured the end with the ribbon.

Hair satisfactorily contained, Darcy dressed quite simply in her favorite lavender day dress, throwing a shawl over her shoulders in an attempt to cover her chest. Her predilection for flattering necklines had never seemed a problem before, but with the promise of Lord Byron at today’s breakfast, she thought it best to err on the side of extreme caution. She picked up the books from the writing table, sat them down again, and after some hesitation finally picked up  _ Lyrical Ballads _ . 

* * *

The Shelleys were already at a table in the library, rather amorously embracing over tea. Darcy coughed politely. “Good morning, Mary. Good morning, Percy.”

Neither party looked at all abashed to have been so caught. “Good morning, Darcy,” Mary replied dreamily. She did have the good sense to extricate herself from her husband’s arms before gesturing at a chair across the table. “I don’t believe Loki or Byron will be here for at least another hour, but you’re welcome to take your breakfast with us.”

Darcy sat. Her plate contained half its normal volume of food, what with the persistent fluttering that her stomach insisted upon. She had to admit that she’d grown quite fond of haggis, though, and began to take small bites. “It seems to be quite the literary society that Loki has cultivated here.”

“Oh, yes.” Mary now batted at Percy’s wandering hands. “And he’s quite a generous patron, too.”

“Patron?” Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea.”

“He offered to finance our journey to Switzerland next month,” Mary replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea how he knew we were in want of funds, but we’re so grateful for his offer.”

Darcy leaned back and sipped at her tea. “Generous indeed.”

The next half hour passed agreeably, with the Shelleys taking turns telling Darcy about their plans to travel along the Rhine on their way to Geneva, where Byron had found a chalet to spend the summer. More surprisingly was the revelation that they were not, in fact, legally married as of yet. “But we may as well have been years ago,” Mary said, more to Percy than Darcy.

“You mean when your mother witnessed our union?” Percy gave Mary a kiss on the cheek.

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “I thought the lady Wollstonecraft passed shortly after your birth, Mary?”

Mary began to turn a rather uncharacteristic shade of crimson. “What Percy means is… ah…”

“They fucked on her mother’s grave,” came Byron’s voice from behind Darcy.

“Don’t be so crude, Byron.” Percy seemed much less bothered by the turn of conversation. “‘Fucked’ makes it sound so base and human, when it was most spiritual.”

Darcy turned her head slightly to peer up over her shoulder. “Don’t sound so judgmental, George Gordon.”

It was Byron’s turn to flush bright red. “Is it too much to ask to be called Lord Byron? Or even just Byron?”

“Why, I don’t know,” Darcy replied. “Is it too much to ask for good manners and decent language in mixed company?”

“I warned you, Byron.” Loki seemed to materialize out of nowhere at Darcy’s other shoulder. “I’ve yet to see Miss Lewis find anything too shocking.” He sat in the chair next to Darcy. “However, Miss Lewis, I do not believe you are one to archly demand proper manners and wholesome language.”

“I only hold Lord Byron to a higher standard for his own good,” Darcy shot back. “And to what purpose do you demand I share a room with him, Master Laufeyson?”

Loki smirked. He settled into the chair, resting his elbows on the arms and tenting his fingers at the level of his chin. “Merely a desire to see a lively meeting of the minds, Miss Lewis.”

“Are we not all friends here, of a fashion?” Byron had regained at least some semblance of his usual affect and proceeded to drape himself over another chair. “Are the two of you not on a first name basis by now?”

“And here I thought you didn’t prefer your Christian name, Lord Byron.” Darcy drew out the syllables of Byron’s name with no shortage of disdain. “Or is it ‘George Gordon’ that you find objectionable? I could simply call you George, if you like.”

Byron shot Loki a pleading look that was answered with another smirk and a languorous shrug. He sighed. “I give up, Miss Lewis.”

“I should hope so.” Darcy took a delicate sip of her tea. “Now, Mary, before we were so rudely interrupted, I believe you were telling me about Geneva.”

“Switzerland is  _ boring _ ,” interrupted Byron. Both women glared at him, but he seemed oblivious. “I mean, it shall be wonderful when we’ve arrived, but we’re in Scotland now.” He pointed at Loki. “Tell them about Brodgar, Loki.”

“A unique landmark, to be sure,” said Loki smoothly. “Perhaps of interest to you, Miss Lewis, based on your interest in the  _ Prose Edda _ .”

Darcy blinked and paused, trying to make sense of the sharp turn the conversation had taken. “I beg your pardon? Is Brodgar a dense translation of Nordic lore?”

Loki laughed softly. “I said that it’s a landmark, Miss Lewis. The Ring of Brodgar.” He leveled his gaze at Darcy. “There are also the stones of Stenness, one of which was called the Odin Stone, before it was destroyed.”

“A ring like Stonehenge, then?” Darcy was relieved to have found a foothold in the conversation once more. “Neolithic landmarks seem to hardly be of much consequence.”

“But think of the mystery!” Byron interjected. “Scholars cannot fathom why these stones stand!”

Darcy fought the urge to sigh at Byron’s shoddy manners. “My sister would tell you that they likely have an astronomical purpose, Lord Byron. Or perhaps that they serve as a primitive sort of calendar.”

“There is some lore associated with the Odin Stone,” said Mary. “It was once a place for couples to make their promises to one another.”

 “Quite so, Mary.” Loki clearly relished drawing out his explanation. 

Darcy did her best to not look interested and was quite certain that she failed in this endeavor. She sat her teacup down carefully so as to not let it rattle against its saucer. “Your father takes his name from the Odin of lore, then?”

“My  _ adoptive _ father,” Loki began, a shadow passing over his eyes. “An affectation, as I said days ago, Miss Lewis.” He laced his fingers together and brought them behind his head. “There exists a history in his family, with connections to those northernmost islands, and he feels that there is importance to maintaining those connections so as to not lose sight of where he came from even as he resides in the more southern climes of England.”

“And you would call your name an affectation as well?” Darcy felt the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up as she met Loki’s eye.

“More a point of pride.” Loki held Darcy’s gaze for a moment longer than could ever be deemed proper.

There was a long pause and Byron opened his mouth to speak. Mary slapped a hand on the tabletop before he could get a word out. “Are we terribly far from this Ring of Brodgar, Loki?”

Loki held Darcy’s gaze for a fraction of a second longer before looking toward Mary. “Less than a mile, perhaps. Not far at all.” His smile took on a rather self-satisfied and secretive look. “I believe the Midsummer celebrations take place there. It’s been so long since we participated, but Thor insists upon it this year.” He looked back at Darcy. “For the entertainment of our guests.”

Darcy could feel warmth spreading along her cheekbones and could not pinpoint exactly why. She stood abruptly. “I… believe I need more tea,” she stammered lamely. She beat a hasty retreat from the library and was back in the dining room before she realized that she had left her teacup behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Percy Shelley really did bang it out on Mary's mom's grave! So goth. Your faves could never.
> 
> Am I drawing this out unbearably? Perhaps. But I do have a direction in mind, and I'm trying to sort out all the details while maintaining the slowest of burns. There will be sexytimes soon enough! I promise! In the meantime, enjoy the delicious tension.


	10. Strangeness at Stromness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy is thoroughly distracted from her original goal of matchmaking on market day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is either where this fic pics up steam or goes completely off the rails. I'll let you, dear readers, be the judge.

"Can you believe it's been a week already?" Jane counted out some coins into her reticule and, satisfied with the amount, drew it closed with a bit more flourish than necessary.

"You mean we haven't been in the desolate north for a month?" Darcy slipped her own reticule onto her wrist and fiddled with the ribbon of her bonnet. The sun had made another appearance, for which she was grateful, as she was ready to go positively mad if forced to spend another day in the confines of the estate.

"It's not so desolate. This is the second sunny day within the week." Jane crossed the room with long strides, clearly also eager to go to the village and visit the midsummer market. "Thor said that's more than one can expect, even in the summer."

"Finally talking to Thor, are we?"

Jane turned pink. "It was just polite dinner conversation. I was seated next to him for the first time since we've been here."

Darcy turned her head to hide her smirk. That had been the product of some clandestine work of her own, aided by Mary, in the brief time between when the staff set the table and the party arrived for their evening meal. She'd also taken the time to move her own name card from its place next to Loki to the opposite end of the table. Loki had clearly been in charge of seating arrangements, for he looked a little surprised to see his brother next to Jane and more than a little irked that Darcy was so far removed. It had been two birds with one stone, really, and Darcy enjoyed making the Viscount Barton roar with laughter just to draw a stony glare from Loki.

Outside, a cluster of carriages awaited. Darcy noted that they each held four and darted toward Mary. "Quick, Mary, you and Percy come with me to this one. And..." She forced a cheerful smile. "Let's bring Byron along with us."

Mary chuckled. "Is Loki's presence so awful?"

Darcy sighed. "You already know me too well."

"Say no more." Mary made quick work of collecting her paramour and his peer. The four climbed into a carriage. Darcy looked out the window to see Loki frowning at her. She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. Loki seemed to be fighting back a smile as he turned to join Thor, Jane, and the Earl in another carriage.

With a jolt, they were off. Darcy grasped the seat to keep from lurching forward straight into Byron's lap; Byron himself looked rather welcome to the idea, but Darcy wasn't about to let herself be ruined by a poet in a carriage on the road to Stromness.

* * *

The day was pleasant, but a brisk wind blew in from the harbor at Stromness and Darcy immediately regretted not wearing her fur-lined pelisse, or even a bonnet made of sturdier stuff than straw. She had rather foolishly chosen her wardrobe for the trip based entirely on time of year, rather than locale, and she resolved to find something suitably warm while out shopping and scheming to bring Jane closer to the object of her affections.

However, it did not seem she needed much help in the latter quarter, as she saw Jane chattering excitedly to Thor, who was listening with more than just polite interest, as the party came alight to the cobbled streets. Loki shot Darcy a satisfied smirk, and for once Darcy was thankful for his powers of persuasion and downright diplomacy.

"Is there anywhere on this island that isn't freezing?" Darcy did her best to suppress a shiver as another cool breeze pulled at the brim of her bonnet and threatened to yank it clean off her head.

Mary, a few steps ahead, beckoned forward. "A ready-made coat is hard to come by, but I'm sure we can find a good wool cloak for you while we're here."

"Should I buy homespun and linen to make a dress to match?"

"Come now, Darcy." Loki seemed to have materialized beside her. "I thought you sympathetic to the lower classes."

"I can't help but have some measure of taste, Loki. I owe it to social stratification." Darcy hugged her arms close as the wind coaxed goosebumps from her skin. "However, I can see the merits of utilitarian warmth here."

Loki reached for the buttons of his own coat. "Can I be of some assistance?"

"Absolutely not."

Loki shrugged. "Suit yourself." He leaned close to Darcy as they came to the entrance of a tailor's shop. "There are two tea rooms in town. You might find the smaller of the two more interesting."

Darcy peered at the sun. "Tea time isn't for hours yet. By that time, I might be too hungry to care whether I'm in a more interesting location, so long as I can get a decent scone."

Loki, being too refined a gentleman to roll his eyes, simply gave Darcy a small nod. "Again, suit yourself." He turned and strode down the narrow lane, ducking into an alley a ways up. Darcy's eyes narrowed and she made note of the spot before entering the shop.

There was a fair mix of samples of the latest fashions from Edinburgh and the Lowlands and some of the sturdier accouterments one found in the Highlands and Isles. The proprietor was apparently a tailor, haberdasher, and milliner all rolled into one, as there were hats hanging in one corner with an array of cloaks and other outer garments. Darcy joined Mary, who was deep in conversation with an older gentleman she assume to be the owner. Mary gestured toward Darcy as she walked up. "And as you can see, sir, we've got a few members of our party unaccustomed to your fine weather."

The man's eyes crinkled with good humor. "Oh aye, 'tis a problem many visitors have." He moved toward some of the finer items for sale. "You can see here we have the latest silks and furs from London--"

"That one," Darcy said, a little too loudly. She pointed to a plain, unassuming woolen cloak with no shortage of pockets lining its inside.

The shopkeeper didn't seem at all fazed. "Sensible, then. My kind of lass." He brought the floor-length cloak over for Darcy's closer inspection.

She took it and ran her hands over the lining approvingly. "I didn't know indigo was a common dye in Scotland."

"Because it's not," said the shopkeeper. "Or not yet. We've used woad for centuries."

"Woad?" Mary's eyes went round. "Like what the Picts tattooed themselves with?"

"Aye, the same. And no dye quite like it."

Darcy pulled the deep blue cloak over her shoulders. "Consider me sold."

The shopkeeper nodded, corners of his eyes crinkling again as he smiled at Darcy and Mary. "And decisive. What rare lasses are ye?"

"Writers," said Darcy firmly. "Mary here is the best of her age. She'll change the world before we know it." She flashed Mary a grin as the latter feigned a fluster. "Now, how much do I owe for this fine piece of outerwear?"

For the first time the shopkeeper looked a bit taken aback, with such frank discussion of money. He strode to his counter and produced a thick book. "Did I see ye talking to one of the lords outside, miss?"

"Ah... yes." An idea dawned on Darcy. "I assume the Marquess and his sons are customers in good standing?"

The shopkeeper flipped a few pages. "Indeed they are."

Darcy bit back a giggle. "Add it to Master Laufeyson's account, then."

"A friend of his, then?" The faintest hint of a shadow crossed the man's brow before he was back to his easy demeanor.

It was Darcy's turn to fluster, only she produced a real blush. "Not... not like that. Just a friend."

The shopkeeper made a few notes in his book. "All set then." He looked back at Darcy. "You'll notice the cloak has a hood. A fair sight better than a straw bonnet, aye?"

Darcy rather imperiously tightened the ribbon of her bonnet. "What I lack in dignity, sir, I more than make up for in stubbornness." She took Mary's arm. "Thank you for saving me from catching my death of cold."

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed well enough once Darcy was able to walk the streets of Stromness without her teeth chattering. She stayed with Mary, content to believe that Loki had done most of the work in bringing Jane and Thor together. By midafternoon, she found herself trailing along as Mary looked doggedly for some traditional jewelry. Their search proved fruitless, and soon Darcy felt her stomach growl. She tapped Mary's shoulder. "Tea. Now. Please."

"Oh, we might as well." Mary stopped and turned around. "The others will be at Hoy, I believe."

Darcy pulled her cloak around herself even more tightly. "Loki mentioned another tea room. A smaller one."

Mary's eyes lit up. "I hadn't heard of another. Shall we deviate?"

"Deviation is our strong suit," Darcy replied, and the two set off with Darcy leading the way. She suspected the alley from earlier might have something to do with this mysterious second tea room, and if it didn't, she still intended to find out just where Loki had gone off to.

Down the small, winding alley, there stood a single door at its end. A weathered wooden sign hung above it, and Darcy could faintly make out the word _Hamnavoe_. "This should be the place," she murmured, but hesitated to reach for the door handle.

"Go on," urged Mary. "Tea room or not, we'll have a story to tell over dinner."

"If we make it to dinner," Darcy hissed. She reached for the handle and pulled anyway.

The inside was quite unlike any tea room Darcy had ever seen. It called to mind more of a pub, save for the absence of ale barrels. Along the center of its length ran a long, single wooden table, with low benches instead of chairs. There was an enormous roaring fire at the end of the room, and to Darcy's surprise and delight, full tea service sets at regular intervals along the oddly long table.

There were a handful of patrons in the room, and Darcy was quick to find a spot of their own. She was sad to see that the tea service was empty, but a stout woman quickly appeared to remedy it. "Ye'll be wanting full tea, then? Scones, shortbread, jam, cream, all of it?" The woman looked to be about fifty, with curling gray hair pinned in a knot atop her head that was uncharacteristically bare of a bonnet. Her accent seemed at first to be the broad Scot type, but there was something odd about it; a lilt, perhaps, or just the slightest difference in the way the syllables strung together. "There's only one tea, now, but we've got good _uisge_ if it's something stronger ye want."

Darcy blinked rapidly. "Tea is fine. And yes, all the food you can bring us, please."

Mary elbowed her. "Did you say whisky?"

" _Uisge_ ," said the woman. "But whisky too, I suppose. We've got some from the _Skalpaflói_ , but if it's a sweeter dram you want we bring a cask or two up from the River Spey for the... visitors."

Mary clapped her hands once. "Tea  _and_ whisky, please. We don't mind the Skalpa... the Skal..."

"From this island, miss," said the woman, not unkindly. She bustled off.

It was Darcy's turn to go wide-eyed. "Mary, I may not act the lady, but I've never had whisky before."

"Oh, you must try it," said her friend. "There's none quite like it in the world. It's all from--"

"The water, and the peat fires," an all-too-familiar voice interjected.

Darcy groaned inwardly. She drummed her fingers on the worn, smooth table and didn't bother looking up. "Have you spent the whole day here, Loki?"

"More or less." Loki slid onto the bench opposite Darcy and Mary. "Most of my business on the island is conducted here. I find it a far more...  _intimate_ setting." He resisted the urge to lean toward Darcy and instead turned his attention to the returning bar matron. "Verdandi, if you wouldn't mind..."

The older woman sat a cut glass of amber liquid in front of Loki. "Saw you comin', m'lord." She sat identical glasses in front of Mary and Darcy, and left again only to bring a tray holding a teapot, a small jug of fresh milk, a platter of warm buttery scones, and dishes of jam and clotted cream. "Anything else, m'lord? M'ladies?"

Darcy already had a mouth half full of scone and jam. She did her best to gulp it down. "No, thank you, ma'am," she said thickly. Her face burned at Loki's smirk and she turned her attention to the whisky. "What can I expect from my first taste of Scottish whisky?"

Loki lifted the glass. "The taste of fire and smoke itself. Fitting, so close to the Midsummer festival." He sniffed the whisky appreciatively and took a slow, reverential sip.

Darcy's brow furrowed. "I thought Beltane was more of a fire festival?"

Loki nearly sputtered his drink right back out. "What do you know of the pagan festivals?"

Darcy shrugged. "I'm a well-read woman."

"Midsummer is a time of bonfires too," Mary interrupted. She took her own glass of whisky and drew a daintier swallow. "Oh, this  _is_ smoky."

Darcy finally braved a sip. She fought the urge to pucker her lips at the sharp taste, but found the warmth traveling down to her belly to be wonderful. It was worth another taste. Her second sip was a bit more bearable than the first, and she fancied that she could taste the embers of the fire down at the end of the long, hall-like room. She paused before elaborating. "I'm only familiar with some of the broader strokes of the older traditions of Britain. We weren't raised in a very religious home, so research in a range of mysteries wasn't unusual."

"If you like mysteries," said Loki, "you ought to have Verdandi's sister read your tea leaves."

"Charlatanism, Loki?" Darcy kept her voice low, just in case the sister in question was nearby. "I wouldn't take you for the type."

"The sisters who own this room are many things," said Loki. "But charlatans they are not." His normally dancing eyes had gone quite still and grave.

Mary peered at the teapot. "Doesn't tasseography need more leaves in the drinker's cup itself?"

Loki nodded. "We can arrange for a reading," he said. He shot Darcy a questioning look. "If you would like, of course."

Darcy found this newfound seriousness in Loki disarming. She wondered if it was maybe the whisky also causing her to question her own perception. The room had gone rather still, and she could see in a shadowed corner a woman of about seventy who looked like a sun-dried version of the woman who had brought their refreshment. She cleared her throat. "What do you think, Mary?"

Mary took another sip of whisky. "I think it sounds marvelous. I've never had my fortune told, believe it or not."

The old woman in the corner came unbidden. She held a tray that had on it two cups, each containing a spoonful of dried leaves, and a steaming pot of water. She sat it on the table.

Darcy gave the tray a dubious look. "Aren't you going to have yours done too, Loki?" A thought was nagging at the back of her head, but the warmth of the fire and the whisky, along with the exertions of the day, was making her feel more than a little drowsy and fuzzy-headed.

"We've known his for his whole life," said the old woman. Her odd accent was even more pronounced than her sister's. She poured the water over the leaves in the cups and gestured to Darcy and Mary. "Drink, quickly."

Darcy and Mary drank obediently and sat their cups back down. The old woman took Mary's first. "Hm. A marriage, but trouble." She rotated the cup. "But success, at the bottom of the cup. Lasting success."

Mary looked over at Darcy and shrugged, as if to say, _how vague could you possibly be?_  She still gave the woman a courteous nod and went back to nibbling on a square of shortbread.

It was Darcy's turn to hand her cup over. The old woman stared for a long time, and finally looked up, but at Loki instead of Darcy. "What do you mean to do?" The question was sharp, and it was pointed at Loki.

For the first time in Darcy's entire experience with the man, Loki looked alarmed. "Not like that," he said, raising his hands in a defensive gesture.

The old woman harrumphed. She turned back to Darcy. "It's too much of a mess to read," she said apologetically. "Ask this one." She jerked her head toward Loki.

Darcy turned to Loki, a look of consternation spreading across her face. "This is utter nonsense! You can't even deliver  _good_ charlatans!"

Loki froze, but the old woman merely reached over and patted his arm. "She doesn't know," she said kindly, and reached for Darcy. She clasped Darcy's hand. "The All-Father go with you," she said softly.

Darcy drew her hands back into her cloak. "And... also with you?" She replied rather lamely, scrambling around for what she thought sounded like the most Catholic answer possible. As far as she knew, the Scots still clung to their Catholicism, the failure of the Jacobites notwithstanding. She was rather fuzzy on her history in that quarter, she had to admit. She was relieved to see that Loki's face had relaxed back into its easy, sardonic mockery.

Loki stood. "I believe our party shall be leaving for the manor soon." He slipped away and spoke softly to Verdandi for a moment before returning to Darcy and Mary. "The tea is on my account. Let us return, shall we?"

Darcy surreptitiously slipped three scones and four pieces of shortbread into one of the larger pockets in her new wool cloak. She saw that Loki noticed, and staunchly ignored his smirking. "You were right, Mary. We do have quite the story for dinner."

Loki's look of sincere concern returned. "I would thank you, Miss Lewis, to not mention this tea room in the presence of my brother and father."

Darcy scowled. She narrowed her eyes at Loki and, as they filed out the door, threw out an elbow to keep him from walking past her. "I have questions," she whispered when Mary was out of earshot.

"And I have answers aplenty, Miss Lewis, but now is not the time," Loki murmured. His strides grew longer and soon he passed Mary and was ten paces ahead by the time the trio reached the carriages.

Back in her carriage with Mary and the poets, Darcy reached for another pocket in the lining of her new cloak. There was a weight there, heavy with the trinket the old woman in the odd tea room had palmed her when she gave Darcy her even odder blessing. A heavy pendant sat in her palm, and she ran her finger over the etched tree on its face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a Regency romance? A fantasy novel? POR QUE NO LOS DOS??
> 
> If it matters to anyone, my writing soundtrack when I work on this fic is every single Outlander soundtrack. It might not be entirely period-appropriate, but what sets more of a mood than flutes, fiddles, drums, and BAGPIPES? Nothing, I say!
> 
> I may have also been sipping on Lagavulin while writing this chapter in particular.
> 
> For the full experience, play "Comin' Thro' The Rye" and "Fallen Through Time" from the Outlander season one soundtrack and drink the peatiest Scotch you can find. (Or, as my husband says, one that "tastes like Band-Aids.")


	11. Gallivanting in the Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy has some chance encounters, some answers to her questions, and more of that burning whisky.

_Loki,_

_As a woman of intellect, I appreciate a good puzzle. However, I've labored a week now to solve the one you've unwittingly presented by virtue of your name and murky origins. This afternoon's tea has only plagued me further, and I demand answers. The library can be the place. After all, I must return this fascinating, if dense, tome of Norse legend._

_DL_

Loki was not given to fidgeting or worrying, and yet he found himself folding and unfolding Darcy's rather terse new missive, turning it into the smallest square possible before pulling it back open again. He cast a look on the other letters stacked neatly on the desk, dating back to their very first correspondence when Darcy had tartly demanded to know what manner of man he thought himself to dispute the venerable Wollstonecraft. He looked back down at the latest message, now creased so much it might be mistaken for scrap had the lines not been so precise. He sighed, stood, and placed the note atop the others.

* * *

 

Darcy rather liked her new cloak. Practicality was not the strong suit of her typical garb, no matter how devoid of frills she insisted they be. She counted eight pockets of varying size in the lining and idly wondered if she could possibly add more. She pulled the tree pendant from the smallest of them and turned it over in her hands. After a moment's consideration, she went digging in the tangle of ribbons she'd heaped upon the desk in her earlier frustration during her dinner preparations. She extricated the violet one and, satisfied that it would be long enough, threaded it through the bail. She tied it around her neck and found the warm bronze comfortingly heavy against her collarbone. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders, finding it a warmer alternative than her dressing-gown, and altogether safer-feeling.

She scooped the  _Prose Edda_ into the crook of her arm and tiptoed into the hallway as quietly as she possibly could. The house had, by and large, retired, and Darcy cringed to recall that she had not specified a time to meet Loki in the library. She had to content herself to hope for the best.

In the dark of the hallway at night, Darcy fancied that wearing the cloak indoors kept her as hidden as she would have been wandering the chill June night. She resisted the urge to pull the hood up over her head.

The library was somehow an even quieter affair in the stillness of evening. Darcy was suddenly very aware of the sound of her own breathing, and she swept her gaze over what she could see of the labyrinthine room, in hopes that she might see Volstagg.

There was no friendly hound in sight, but as Darcy ventured further in, she heard the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet from behind an alcove. "Loki?"

There was some indistinct male whispering, followed by a rather feminine hiss. Darcy frowned. "Mary? Percy?"

To her surprise, the Viscount Barton's head came peeking from around the corner. "Not here," he said, and flashed Darcy a strained grin. "Just me. Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd, uh..."

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "Read? I've not known you to read since you were forced to by your tutors." She took a step forward. "Who else is here?"

"B'layd!" The voice was most certainly a woman's, but its owner wasn't showing herself.

Darcy's eyes widened at the husky tones of the Countess. She took a step back to the door. "Reading sounds like a most agreeable way to pass the time," she remarked. "I'll leave you to it."

Barton shot Darcy a grateful look and nodded. "If I see Loki or Mary or Percy, I'll, erm..."

"Send them to the garden," Darcy whispered. She left the book on the closest table and nearly tripped over her own feet in her hurry to leave. It wasn't until she passed by the drawing room that she realized she was going entirely the wrong way to be out of doors. She slowed and turned, struck by an idea.

Unfortunately, even the drawing room wasn't safe from indiscretion. The far more open arrangement of sofas and settees granted Darcy to the sight of another amorous couple, though thankfully still in a state of relatively full dress. Silhouetted against the fireplace was an unmistakable mass of light brown hair and a shoulder clad in a pink dressing-gown she knew all too well. Darcy pointedly cleared her throat.

Jane whirled and let out a small shriek. "Darcy!" She must have not been in a position to easily move along the length of the settee and seemed to be struggling a bit to regain her composure. And her balance. The top of the blond head that Darcy suspected - and even hoped - might be beneath Jane's began to peek above the furniture's back. Jane, wide-eyed with panic, pushed it back down and Darcy heard Thor make a noise between a grunt and a laugh.

Darcy bit down on her lower lip to keep from giggling. "I just thought I might find some of the... ah... whisky that might be in here?"

"In the cabinet with the glass door," came Thor's stage whisper. Jane's furious blush was visible even in the glow of the firelight. Her eyes darted from the concealed man beneath her to her sister's amused expression. She opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it again.

"I'm so glad you know where our generous hosts keep their spirits," Darcy said. "I'll be leaving now, Jane. Just Jane. Who was in this room alone when I came in here." She walked to the cabinet in question and extricated a half-full bottle, never once looking directly at the settee in front of the fireplace. "See you in the morning... Jane."

"See you in the morning," came an exaggerated falsetto that sounded suspiciously like Thor trying to imitate the Lady Foster. Jane, mortified, ducked her head back down out of sight as Darcy bolted out, whisky in hand and a smile on her lips.

 _Whatever Loki said to that pair must have been magic_ , Darcy thought. Her stomach gave a little lurch and she clutched the whisky bottle even tighter. "Don't be ridiculous," she whispered to herself. "You are an educated woman. Magic does not exist."

She was glad when she finally stepped out into the gardens. Feigning ignorance in the face of not one but two assignations was a bit much, even for her, and she welcomed the cool night air. The moon was waxing, nearly full, and it cast an otherworldly light over garden path. Everything was muted, bluish-gray, and even the most orderly of the hedges cast shadows that made them look wild and sinister. Darcy hurried along toward the circle of stone benches at the garden's center.

At least, she was quite certain she was headed towards the garden's center. She could have sworn that she never once left the straight stone path, but instead of hedgerows and flowerbeds, everything around her seemed to only grow wilder. She kept a steady pace as she uncorked the whisky bottle and took an unladylike swig. She made a face. "Good God, where do they find this stuff?" Even so, that same warmth from earlier in the day began to suffuse her from within, and she took another, smaller sip.

Abruptly, she realized that the orderly garden had disappeared entirely. She halted and turned to make sure that she hadn't lost the path, but there it lay behind her, smooth paving-stones lined with shrubbery that had, in fact, grown more unkempt. She turned back around to face the direction she'd been heading.

Looming in front of her was a massive stone. She blinked slowly and looked down at the bottle in her hand. "This was stronger than I thought," she mused aloud.

"Not quite."

Darcy nearly jumped out of her skin. " _Must_ you continue to do that?" She did turn this time to see Loki sauntering up the path behind her.

He inclined his head. "Apologies, Miss Lewis." He nodded at the whisky bottle. "May I?"

Darcy's hand was wrapped around the neck of the bottle as she held it out, leaving Loki no choice but to grasp it closer to the base as he took it from her. Darcy drew her hand back into her cloak as quickly as she'd put it out and turned back around to face the large stone. "What is this?"

Loki swallowed his whisky before answering. "If you'll look just beyond, you might see more stones."

Darcy squinted into the darkness. As if to help, a wisp of cloud that must have been in front of the moon rolled aside. In the soft glow she could make out a few more hulking masses of stone. "Am I to believe this is the Ring of Brodgar?"

"The same."

Darcy could feel the warmth from Loki's body just behind hers. She stiffened slightly and resisted the urge to turn around. "Yet here I was led to believe that it's more than just a stroll away from your door."

"It is." Loki's words just barely moved the hair behind Darcy's ear. "Another drink, Darcy?"

She maintained her forward gaze on the sweeping ring of standing stones and merely held her opposite hand over her shoulder in wordless demand for the bottle. Loki obliged, and Darcy felt his fingers brush hers as she took the whisky from him. She braced herself against the shiver that raced down her spine. "So what am I to believe, Loki?"

Loki chuckled so close to Darcy's ear that it sounded to her more like a throaty hum. "Belief is a slippery thing on the islands."

Darcy couldn't stand it any longer and whirled around. "And am I to believe that Verdandi's sisters are named Urd and Skuld?" She did her best to hold the whisky bottle as a shield between herself and Loki. "Are their names simply _affectation_?"

Loki inclined his head ever so slightly forward. "You ask questions that you already know the answer to," he said softly, all traces of sardonic ease gone from his voice.

Darcy's grip on the whisky bottle tightened. She wondered, fleetingly, if perhaps she'd be able to use it to get a good blow to Loki's head and make an escape should the need arise. She stepped back and took another sip, tilting her head back as she did so and looking up at the moon and bright swath of stars overhead.

Whether it was the whisky, their proximity, or the heady sense of  _place_ Darcy got from the ring of stones, she couldn't quite tell. All she knew was that she felt a bit as if she was going to vibrate out of her skin if she didn't take swift action, and so action she took. She curled her fingers in Loki's cravat - _why on earth was he still fully dressed at midnight?_ \- and pulled him towards her.

Loki didn't resist. On the contrary, as soon as Darcy had reached toward him, he felt possessed of a crushing need. He let Darcy's mouth find his first, but it was he who persuaded her lips to part.

Darcy tasted the embers of the whisky on Loki's tongue and what had been a shiver down her spine turned to a burst of flame, and she had a moment to muse that this must be what it felt to be kindling before she lost herself further in the deepening kiss. Before she realized what she was doing, she dropped the bottle and it smashed open on the stones of the path.

Loki pulled back for just a moment. "That was some of my father's best drink," he said hoarsely.

Darcy's now-free hand was tugging on Loki's lapel. "I didn't think you cared much for your father," she breathed.

"Point taken." The wicked glint in Loki's eye as he grinned at Darcy was positively feral. Darcy found herself consumed with the sudden urge to learn just how to most effectively remove a man's entire wardrobe. Before she could begin to puzzle out the logistics, Loki buried a hand in her hair and pulled her upturned face back toward his own. His lips didn't stay on Darcy's for long, however, and he himself felt consumed by the urge to explore the slope of Darcy's neck.

Loki trailed a line of kisses - but no, kiss was too gentle a word, as Darcy felt she was a hair's breadth away from being devoured - until he reached the makeshift choker at Darcy's neck. He stilled and pulled back slightly, and when he caught sight of the pendant, he jerked back as if he'd been burned. "Where did you get that?"

Darcy, upset at the sudden chill that invaded the space where Loki had previously been, frowned. "One of your Norns gave it to me."

Loki looked slightly pained. "Don't use that word."

Darcy drew back. She could smell the whisky now, from where the bottle had shattered on the ground beside her. The heady, smoky scent nearly sent her reeling. "And why not? You said I know the answers to my own questions, and that is one of many answers I have."

For a man who had just been ardently exploring a woman's clavicle, Loki looked completely unruffled. His face was once more an inscrutable mask. "Then I assume you know the fruitlessness of further pursuit," he said smoothly, once more the picture of practiced ease.

Darcy felt her temper flare. "You... you are..." She all but threw her hands up to the sky as she pushed past Loki. "Is this the way back to the estate?"

"Of course," replied Loki. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Darcy spun around to see Loki standing in the orderly circle of benches that stood at the center of the gardens. She drew her lips together in a tight line. "Of course," she mimicked, and spun on her heel back toward the house.


	12. Library Liaison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Loki try to ignore one another, but that can never last for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends. I've been sitting on this fic for too long, and I finally poured a couple fingers of Lagavulin and got down to business. The real business. The business we're all here for.

Days came and days went. Fortunately, the Odinson estate was large enough that Darcy was able to avoid Loki as much as possible, no matter how infuriatingly weak in the knees she still found herself whenever she could not avoid his presence. He was still possessed of that irritating smirk, and Darcy found herself possessed of the urge to attack it with both fist and face.

 

The letters had stopped coming as well. She found no reason to continue corresponding with a man as acutely aggravating as Laufeyson, and it appeared that the cold shoulder was well reciprocated. That is, until the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, with only a few days left before the assembled guests were set to depart.

 

Darcy had taken her tea and breakfast back to her room to pick up where she had left off in  _ The Mysteries of Udolpho _ . She found the heroine trite but her situations intriguing and so was absorbed in the Gothic tale until she heard a soft sound come from the direction of her door. She sat the book down and looked to the source of the sound. She saw an envelope on the floor, a familiar script written on it. Darcy briefly considered leaving it indefinitely, but curiosity won over the trials of Emily St. Aubert and she left the comfort of the bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Loki sat in the library, the  _ Prose Edda _ weighing heavy in his hands. He sat at a window seat, feeling especially moody with the day’s soft drizzle falling on the window behind him. If he knew Miss Lewis, she would arrive in the next fifteen minutes or she would not arrive at all. He thumbed the pages of the tome in the meantime, carefully considering what he would say.

 

True to form, Darcy arrived presently. She crossed the library floor on soft feet and came to a stop in front of Loki. “Explain yourself.”

 

Not so true to form, Loki let out a sigh and looked up at Darcy with resignation. “You may want to sit.”

 

Darcy crossed her arms. “I shall do no such thing, Master Laufeyson.”

 

“ _ Loki _ .”

 

Darcy blinked. “Loki.” She paused and rocked on her heels a bit but decided to stand her ground. “While I know you prefer to perambulate, I have an array of French pastries and the words of Ann Radcliffe awaiting me in my room, and I would prefer to not leave either for too long.”

 

Loki sighed once more. “You’re quite sharp, Darcy.”

 

“Sharp.” Darcy faltered, just barely, as she noticed the book in Loki’s hands. “Do tell.”

 

“My family’s names, and those we know in Stromness…” He stared at the  _ Prose Edda _ . “It is more than affectation.”

 

Darcy braced her hands on the table behind her. “Go on.”

 

“It’s something like to… manifestation.” He looked up at her. “If you are familiar with…  _ any _ mythology… you are aware that meddling in mortal affairs is a rather popular pastime.”

 

Darcy did her best to keep her breaths measured. “Don’t hurt Jane.”

 

Loki knit his brow. “What?”

 

“Don’t hurt Jane.” Darcy flexed her fingers a bit when she realized just how tightly she’d been gripping the edge of the table. “She’s quite smitten with Thor. He seems to feel similarly about her but if this is all a  _ pastime _ \---”

 

“My  _ brother _ \---” Loki’s mouth twisted around the word. “My brother does not have the capacity for such games. His affections for Jane are sincere.” His gaze bore into Darcy, and she couldn’t help but fidget. “I assume you know about my own nature.”

 

“I do,” replied Darcy. She braced herself for the words forming in her mind before speaking them. “And I do not care.”

 

Loki’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. “You what?”

 

“I do not care.” Darcy lifted her chin. “While the Lady Jane Foster is a lady of quality, and deserves only the best in her future, I am but Darcy Lewis.” Her mouth set in a line. “I am no lady, and behaving as one is not always what I wish to do.”

 

Loki stood. He took a step toward Darcy. “And what do you wish to do?”

 

_ I will not give in _ , Darcy told herself.  _ Not yet _ . “To perhaps end this game.” Her voice was much higher than she’d intended. She cleared her throat. “What did you call it? A game of cat and mouse?” She summoned as much will as was possible in that moment, in that proximity, and stepped back to look Loki in the eye. It was certainly a game of cat and mouse, she realized, and the look in Loki’s eyes was all languid predator. “I am not prey,” she said in much steadier, measured tones.

 

Loki moved to narrow the gap once more. “Mistaken metaphors,” he said, more to himself than anything, and wrapped an arm around Darcy’s waist and closed all space between them.

 

Before, Darcy assumed that most of the heady feeling that came from kissing Loki had been a byproduct of island whisky. Now, she was certain that this sensation put intoxication to shame. She reached up to run her fingers through Loki’s hair, which elicited a groan that sent a fire through Darcy’s body faster and hotter than any distilled spirit could provide. She pressed her body against his.

 

This was apparently too much for Loki to bear. He pushed Darcy back until she was against the table. Darcy let go just long enough to hitch her skirts up and sit where she could comfortably wrap her legs around Loki’s hips. Loki couldn’t help but laugh, then, a low thrumming chuckle that Darcy felt as heat blooming from deep inside her body. “Have you done this before, Miss Lewis?”

 

“I am not prey,” she repeated, looking into Loki’s eyes once more.

 

He smirked. “You blush like an innocent,” he said. His sardonic smile faltered when Darcy’s hand pressed against the front of his trousers.

 

“I am a learned woman, Master Laufeyson,” Darcy said, enjoying her brief upper hand. “Does this trouble you?” Her lips met his once more, this time with her teeth grazing along his bottom lip for emphasis.

 

In answer, Loki made a sound like to a growl and his hands moved to the insides of Darcy’s thighs, stroking upward until his thumbs briefly teased at the juncture. Those long, clever fingers of his dipped lower and he gently slid one inside while his thumb continued to stroke slow circles over the tender bud above. He was rewarded with Darcy arching her back and tilting her head, her eyelids fluttering and lips parted in a half-smile. He couldn’t bear to leave her lips wanting for long and buried his other hand in her hair to pull her back to him for another crushing kiss as he slipped in a second finger and crooked them forward.

 

Darcy’s shallow breaths turned to a sharp hiss. “I…” She trailed off, rocking against Loki’s hand in concert with the steady rhythm he’d already begun.

 

“Have more to learn,” he replied, voice rasping low. “It doesn’t trouble me at all.”

 

Darcy could feel warmth and pressure building and she raked her fingers down Loki’s back, wishing he was wearing less clothing, wishing  _ she _ was wearing less clothing, wishing he would slow down, wishing he wouldn’t. Her thighs were shaking, her breathing more ragged with each thrust. “Loki,” she whispered, pleading, as the tension crested to its peak.

 

“Darcy,” he breathed, and with her name on Loki’s lips, Darcy reached a shuddering climax, feeling as if she would spool out in a thousand directions, crackling with warmth, loose-limbed and spinning as if she’d drunk the finest whisky imaginable. She leaned forward and buried her face against Loki’s neck for just long enough to collect all those thousand smoldering pieces and thrill at the feeling of Loki’s fingers still inside her. She let out a small whine as he withdrew them, and she lifted her head.

 

Loki’s eyes were steady on Darcy’s as he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked, groaning appreciatively. He looked so satisfied and smug that it broke through Darcy’s brief aroused stupor, and she pressed a hand against the front of his trousers again, this time bringing her other hand forward to undo the front fall buttons. She freed his cock and gently stroked its length. She scooted forward and took Loki’s chin. “You will fuck me, Master Laufeyson.”

 

Loki’s eyes, half-lidded and dark, met Darcy’s. “Not concerned with virtue?” His voice was husky, strained, thick with want.

 

Darcy guided him to her entrance and hooked her ankles at the small of his back. “We discussed virtue at length,” she admonished. “Our families care not...” She took his face in her hands. “...and in fact…” She rocked her hips, teasing him. “...yours may even encourage it.”

 

At this Loki took a firm grasp of her haunches and pulled her forward, holding her weight with surprising strength considering his lean frame. The two of them fell into a rhythm, and Darcy wondered distantly if the two of them could convince Byron to sit at this table at their next poetry discussion. She felt Loki twitch and buried her fingers in his hair and tugged his face away from hers. “Say it,” she demanded.

 

“I---”

 

“Loki.” Darcy tugged on his dark locks. “I said your name. I’ve said it too much.  _ Say mine. _ ”

 

“Darcy,” Loki hissed through clenched teeth. His thrusts grew erratic and he buried his face in Darcy’s neck and her hair that had come loose from its pins, taking in every single sensation he could as he came to climax.

 

The two clung to one another for a brief moment. Loki gently sat Darcy back down on the table. “I cannot promise that this means any certain future for you,” he said.

 

Darcy couldn’t help but give him another kiss. “A future is not what I care for right now,” she replied. She gave his hair another slight tug. “At least none beyond an immediate future.”


End file.
